Templar : Chronicles of the Old Kingdoms
by Tharagon
Summary: Book 1: During the conclusion World War Two, a series of supernatural Events shake Arthur Hellsing to the core. Their Source: The Knight Templar, a group of 'Monsters of Fortune' lead by the enigmatic Gregory Winslow. Welcome to a whole new World... -OC-
1. The Beginning of the Dawn

"You really think I'm a leashed animal, do you really think I'm a slave to my master's will? I could have left many moons ago, many hundreds of years. You're part of a blood rite to your master's family, you have little choice in what you do or what you think. You follow blindly with little care for the world around you. In fact you rarely care at all, except your baser instincts and your own petty, selfish existence. I am very much aware of the world around me and I am very much obliged to live my own life within it. I chose this path, you were forced; the narrow minded 'thing' you are. You get servitude, I get paid."

_Knight Captain Andrew Wrathwell, Knight Templar and leader of Squad Hermes (Nightwatch Division, First Guard, 90th legion of her Majesty the Queen, Black Berets 2nd Class, Scyre Level Individuals). First true recorded encounter with the vampire Alucard (1952)_

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* * *

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The heavy rain had permeated every surface of the city of London as the clouds wheeled high above the city, their vast surfaces unbroken, except for the deeper patches which covered the sky in cracks. The taller shapes of the buildings which reared up from the wet earth were like fangs tearing at the sky, their sides glistening in the torrential downpour which had most people running for shelter in the many cafes and shops which had sprung up along the streets. It was a winter to spend, most shop owners had discovered, their stores full of shoppers, all trying to escape the rain outside.

Only the gargoyles braved the elements and sat in their high perches, the lonely vigils forever unchanging, however much the rest of the world warped around them. The Gargoyles of London were unarguably a rather quiet bunch, their stone skins catching most of the moisture as they glared down onto the streets below. Their claws were well embedded into the stone work allowing their, dragon like or wolf like or vaguely obscure visages to lean ever so further forward to, as ever, nosy on the world rolling by below.

Like the policemen that shivered on each corner, the gargoyles were ever watchful, their stony eyes always open. Even though unmoving, the more sensitive individuals, those with their third eye open may have had the slight impression that they were been watched, permanently.

Especially within the Hellsing Mansion, where several wolfish gargoyles seem to be in different positions each day, disturbingly wherever the most activity was occurring. Whenever Arthur Hellsing, who was rather unnerved by their stony watchers, tried to have them removed, they were usually impossible to find.

A steam boat pitched in the grey waters of the Thames, its Captain sealed in the wood and glass box of the bridge, the London bridge opening slowly as the many metal surfaces ran with water which was gurgling from the drains into the river far below. It was admitted that the weather was especially unusual, especially by the American Tourists who wandered the ornate galleries of the Houses of Parliament. However, as those who frequented the many cafes said, it is Britain.

This to some was a pretty holy word. For Britain itself stood on many Ley lines, where power meets and builds below the ancient streets. This small damp isle was home to more then just Humankind which the rest of the world usually forgot. As Britain remained behind in some of its traditional values, the world moved on and slowly forgot the Old Worlds.

The city murmured and grumbled to itself as the morning wore on, the streets full with cars and the paths full of people, heads bowed, eyes blinkered to those around them as they sprinted on, their bags full of shopping and their heads full of garbage. Unlike past times, now the general population of England were very good at denying problems exist and will go to any length to either solve it quickly, with little fuss or, in most cases, avoid the possibility that there was something wrong.

Some would call it optimism, most would call it ignorance. Like Magic, for example, and that great beyond. That was reserved for fanatics, idiots, Hippies or a fusion of the two, religious followers and spiritualists with more time then sense and a lack of money with whole load of empty air which is always cringingly quiet when they attempt to change the mind of the masses especially on live TV.

Frauds or not, some have a point. For some of the wanderers far below, it would have made their day to look up into the rain filled sky and see the Gargoyles who were not funnelling water or glaring but instead were, in fact, playing cards.

The ones who sat upon the vast bulk of Saint Paul's were an extremely interesting bunch and spent their days playing chess, a rather interesting pastime seeing as most didn't own a chess board. Or were addicted to espionage as with those who occupied the Hellsing rooftops. Sir Hellsing had always wondered who paid them…

Magic had already been a fascination of most of the older population. The belief that there was more to life then the mundane. A belief there was a lot more going on behind the scenes. Humans always had an aptitude for this, their own imaginations fuelling their almost inane belief that there was more to life then this. Hellsing knew, in fact, Hellsing was only too aware. It existed and it had fangs, large ones. Sadly Hellsing dealt with more 'lame' adversaries. Vampires or Vampyres in olde English were more the bug bears of the real world, each struggling to keep up with the modern world and loosing all honour and power in the process.

Freaks, the easiest name for these upstarts, Freaks. Not like the ancient Madness of the Count of the Vampires but new upstarts who believed they'd been given the world but had no idea about what lurked 'beyond' and their lives were about to be cut short. So Count Vlad craved more, growing more powerful as again and again he was sent out to destroy the younger ones of his race. He became a soldier, a Dog under the command of Hellsing, with no true purpose except to follow. So Hellsing fielded their trained vampires and believed that world was all well and good and they were doing an all round 'good thing'.

But there was so much more living in the deepest forest, living in the highest points of the sky and darkest ocean. There were things long forgotten in myth who wandered the paths and roads of this world, their hearts dark as the world slowly forgot them. People always disappeared into the dark, things still went bump in the night and strange lights would flicker along the coasts, each a desperate reminder from the old world, to tell us that it still existed.

There were always the individuals however, who were well aware of the old world and for some, were connected to it in some tenuous way. But after several un-recorded events, where large occult activities, several bloody rituals took place where the old gods found their attentions dragged back to this lone world, especially during the World Wars, it was deemed necessary that Britain need a defence against the old Nightmares. And the best way to face off a horde of monsters? With your own large horde of Monsters.

Better reach for an old teddy bear you had as a child, close the curtains, scatter salt over your shoulder, find some mistletoe and hope the night ends quickly. And a get book of Grimm's Fairy Tales too, the old nightmares are returning and I think its wise you checked under your bed, there may be something waiting for you….

* * *

Red cloth, sodden in the rain, fluttered heavily, its thick folds struggling to shift the hanging water. The floppy brim of the wide hat moved in the breeze as glinting orange spectacles caught the half light from the nearby street lamps. It wasn't too uncomfortable for the vampire, the day light hours were exhausting but the sun wasn't able to bathe the world now meaning it was perfect weather for some.

Walter pulled the thick black overcoat tighter around his aging form, hair pulled back in a tight pony tail as his once youthful face began to show some signs of aging. He was thirty years old and cold, extremely cold. They'd been stood there most the morning, watching the squabbling gargoyles high above on the sides of Saint Paul's Cathedral. It had been a long task, Arthur had personally ordered it, his face strained as he cradled the cooing, gurgling baby in his arms, his cigars ignored for one day as the man struggled to care for the child, Integra.

To Walter, it was a strange name compared to the string of 'usual' names which had come before, it spoke of aristocracy and honour, something which had been somewhat ignored by the Hellsing ancestors, Alucard had never really given his thoughts on the issue and was instead, busying himself with other menial chores, massacring the current ghoul population scattered across London.

The child seemed to bring a certain sadness to the Count, seeing how long each family member lived, it probably meant another hundred years servitude under another family head until the next came along. Alucard may have wanted to be free at one point. For now, however, the future seemed to follow one strict path. The long years he'd spent under Arthur's command were taking their toll. Even soldiers or dogs struggle to be unpredictable.

He was becoming a killing machine, something most of the Hellsings' thought he revelled in. But the power was gone, and the once effortless seduction and romance had disappeared, now replaced by madness, which Walter feared, would become worse as each year wore on.

Alucard was gone in a flurry of rain drops as the large cathedral loomed above them. Walter could sense his boredom, the same caged animal once again struggling in its cage as the blood rites holding Alucard in his current form struggled against his dark will.

There seemed a scent in the air however, a bitter tang which covered the streets in an unseen mist. Alucard knew it was there and it seemed to weigh on the vampire's mind. The bitter tang of change perhaps. Alucard wasn't one for metaphors, been brutal and to the point on many occasions, but he couldn't shake the feeling, which was strange for the ageless being, that things were moving beyond the veil of reality. But there was something waiting just beyond the doors of that Vast cathedral that waited for him. The vampire was up the steps, hurrying toward the cathedral as the dark whirled high above, the rain speeding up as the wind howled.

Something was coming, Walter realised as he sprinted after the hurrying vampire, he could feel the tang on the wind, something vast and beyond the sky was coming and he most certainly did not like it. It wasn't coming now, the surge in the air was too weak, but it was almost here, and Walter hoped his soul would have left this world by the time it arrived.

Anyway, at present his real quarry was several metres away, passing through the arch into the space beyond, the blood red coat disappearing from view.

* * *

The large blade rang with the file as the wetstone was dragged along its curved length. Spark rippled from its carved surface and onto the holder's lap where it was laid. The wielder paused, mid sharpen and raised his head to the high, arched ceiling, brown hair flopping back.

A smile rose upon his lips as he resumed sharpening, the noise echoing down the halls and vast space of the inside of Saint Paul's. Alucard paused mid stride, his face set in a hideous snarl as he took in the single man mounted on the altar steps, sharpening the massive War Scythe resting on his knees.

"You…"


	2. Dementer's Dirge

_**Dementer's Dirge

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_"Even in the brightest of light, it will always cast the deepest of shadow"_

Cabalist Shia'ra quoted in conversation to Sir Integra Helsing (2000)

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Whitby – 1897

Gulls called. The ever watchful abbey which stood high above the town of Whitby was an ominous silhouette on the grey skyline as the storm clouds covered the town with a mist of rain. Water ran in rivulets down the guttering of the market square as the dull copper of the gate which covered the Sander's Yard alleyway glittered as the brief rays of sun caught the many rain drops which clung to its metal surface. Above the arch, the metal raven was caught in mid caw as the water dribbled along its carved beak, its jet eyes glittering as it eternally watched the street far below.

Beyond the town, the storm wracked sea had forced many a fisherman to yield and find shelter in the many taverns which made up Whitby's southern side. To venture through the gate like port was suicide seeing the iron coloured waves tossing beyond, the white horses tumbling from steely mountains down onto the coast. Still, that wasn't the only thing keeping the men in the taverns. Even the stoutest of heart could feel the inconsolable dread in the air….

The brown coat caught the breeze as the hardened leather boots rang off the cobbles as the figure crossed the square. From beneath the hood which was pulled up tightly as to cover the stranger's face, eyes flashed as water ran in streams down the brown leather plates which covered his shoulders. The long coat fell to around knee height, its front heavily fastened to stop the thick cloth falling open. Rosary beads were wrapped around the length of the left arm as strapped to his back, a long thin shape which hung the length of the man's back was wrapped in swaddle. He paused below the Raven, head tilting back as he looked up. The raven appeared to eye him beadily through dead eyes for a matter of seconds before he looked down, hood falling back into place and the glittering green eyes which blazed beneath the hood falling back into shadow.

* * *

The blood stained sails seemed to be trying to tear themselves from the ship as the wind roared. The lantern was almost torn from Johnson's grip as the old coastguard pulled his thick oil skins closer to his chest to keep the cold out. The wrecked ship lay in its resting place, sides scattered across the beach as the pounding waves caused the prow to rattle. The air was filled with the constant dull….

Thoom…

…of the waves. Johnson felt water dribble down onto his beard from the oilskin hat he wore as the wind continued to howl. Far below the watchful gaze of the abbey, the ship known as Dementer had borne the brunt of many a storm had finally found its grave. As too had the crew. Johnson raised his lantern, the rain flecked glass casting eerie shadows over the warped deck. The last poor soul, strapped to the wheel, crucifix in hand lolled in his makeshift harness, the blood clear on his hands where the wheel had cut his palms.

Thoom…

The old man crossed himself, his shaking hands resting on his quailing heart. There had been others, one following an old trail, others questing for riches among the wreckage. They'd all left now though; the storm had turned many an opportunist local from picking apart the wreck piece by piece. So to had the shadow which had fallen across the port. Johnson wished he didn't have to be here, among such death. Above, the sails continued to stretch and warp, the words written in blood running in the lashing rain.

Thoom…

Down below the shell encrusted hull, where the sand met the wooden sides of the ship and the rock which held it in place. Beside the crates, the scattered barrels, the splintered wood and smashed bottles, bare foot prints were imprinted, taking long strides from the bow of the ship, reaching the water's edge several metres away. Sea water gurgled in the pits and holes cut in the sand by the many eddies from the waves, seaweed floating like green hair in the many pools, washing away the very clear footprints of a large dog….

Thoom….

* * *

Norway- January 30th 1945

The North sea rolled below as the Lancaster Bomber swung low, its left wing tip nearly catching the pitch black sea below. Wave tops scattered along the rocky shore as fir trees swayed along the steep cliffs which made up the coast of Norway. The clatter of the engines echoed across the high cliffs as the bomber reached the mouth of the fjord, its exhaust minimal among the spray from the sea below and the slight breeze which stirred the cliff top forest. No running lights showed along the pitch black air craft, no markings were visible along its matt black coating. Its gun turrets were still in their cradles, bomb bay doors securely closed against the freezing air.

The wing tip left the surface of the water, righting the air craft as its pilots began their swoop for the narrow entrance to the Fjord. Below, the water was thrashing under the thrumming engines as the craft dropped lower, its underside skimming the water. Beneath the glass canopy of the cockpit, the pilots were at work, deft fingers running over the surrounding instruments as they pulled up…..

"Billy…" the smaller of the two pilots looked up from his instruments, eyes hidden behind black covered goggles, a single cigarette hanging from his very pale mouth "…how are you holding up, lad?"

Billy's voice nearly passed unheard over the engines as he clutched the joystick even tighter. His officer only heard one word "….cargo…"

* * *

The rain caught the cathedral steps as the ruins rang with the sound of thunder. Like hellish portal or some brooding spider, the massive complex of ruins, graveyards and catacombs sat upon the high precipices above the Urringberg Fjord. Lit by many torch lights among the ruins, German soldiers sprinted through the muddy puddles which surrounded the single altar which sat squat in the centre. Set out in a perfect circle around that central altar, pews lay in ruins, their rotting wood scattered across the mud covered floor.

Under the watchful gazes of gargoyles, many wires and tubes were been pulled into position around the large central altar, their coatings slick as their carriers struggled to hold them in place with bare hands. These were attached to vast generators, their engines pumping black smoke. Behind work stations white coated men moved among the instruments, faces covered by large white masks, their eyes hidden behind large black goggles as dials ticked below their white clad fingers. Lit by the vast search lights, the red flags hanging from the walls swirled in the breeze, the white symbol emerging from the crimson folds.

A wire fell out of place, slipping from the struggling soldier's hands. For a split second the scene froze as the thick metal plug fell, its surface cutting through the suspended water and the look of complete and utter terror written on the soldier's face at the sight of the tall black boots which stood right behind him.

"Vhy do I have to rely on Half-vits to complete this task when Ghouls can work without complaint or mistakes" The cold female voice cut through the air, sweat pouring visibly from the soldier's face as he stared in horror at the fallen pipe, his hands bleeding from the sharp metal coating of the thick wire. A ridged claw caught the back of his neck, raising him to eye level with the white pale face of the Oberst. She was strikingly beautiful, the line of her jaw and perfect cheek bones and unblemished skin. And the look of untold cruelty written across her perfect features….

"Maybe you'll be more use as a Ghoul"

Her fangs met his throat, tearing through the skin to soak up the warm blood beneath. The soldier continued to gargle as around him his comrades bowed their heads and continued with their tasks, oblivious to the macabre scene. His still kicking boots were raised from the floor as she pushed him up into the night air. The fangs released and she tossed him away like a rag doll, her blond hair dropping loose from the tight bun. She brushed it back into position, licking away the crimson stains which daubed her cheeks and straightened her grey frock coat, the cloth only lighty spotted with blood from her previous meal.

"Ve vill deal vith that vone in time…" she took her officer's cap from the hands of one blank faced trooper who stood beside her, tightening the brim onto her hair "…vor now, keep the vorking."

"Ya Oberst"

She stepped away, boots meeting the filth of the floor as she passed among the soldiers who bowed their heads as she approached, trying at best to ignore her passage.

"Ve vill deal vith slackers as ve do deserters…" her clear voice echoed across the vast space between the arches "…the var depends on success."

She mounted the steps to the high altar set tall among the tombs. From close up, the dark stone it was made out of cast her reflection well, its carved surface covered with runic carvings and lines. Set into the altar's base, copper lines had been dug into the surface, running from the altar onto the mud covered floor where they were no longer apparent. Her black leather glove met the top of the altar, fingers running across its carved surface.

"Valhalla awaits us all"

Behind, beyond the network of wires, the body of the soldier rose to his feet, eyes glowing in the darkness as hobnail boots met the floor, the blood stains on his uniform unclear, the hole in his throat leaking fluid as he rose to his feet, mouth curling back in an animalistic sneer as fangs emerged from his gums.

* * *

The Lancaster was a rattling, foul smelling junker as the steps dropped down into the darkness. If you were to leave the safety of the cockpit and drop to the lower levels, the metal tinged air was full of noise and rattling as the winds and speed tore at the plane's surface.

And such darkness. Billy was right to be afraid…

Through the hole, harnesses and parachutes ready to use, the metal planking covered with metal boxes of many shapes and sizes, the symbol of a setsquare and a compass inscribed into their surfaces. Through the comms station with its many wires and plugs where a single figure was hunched over a long ranged ham radio, the garbled radio static inaudible through the noise. Glasses glinted in the gloom; the rest of the face was in darkness as the figure pulled the cloak tighter around its form.

Through the bomb bays which were empty of the usual incendiary rounds where several shapeless figures sat hunched. One was slowly polishing a large, long barrelled rifle, the slight light made by the red beacons over the entrance to the room catching the thin barrel and casting the others into dark red shadows. The other nearest the door held a book in its hand, head bowed with black overcoat pulled tight around their form. The other had its head in its hands, messy hair spilling over its tightly meshed fingers; a black cloak pulled over its head.

Through the bomb bay, the rest of the plane was lit by several flickering candles which moved in the draft as the glass dome on the rear of the plane took in the water far below. Lit by candles the blazing green eyes ran quickly from line to line scribed onto the pages of the book clasped in the hands of the man, his short cut brown hair emerging from beneath a large hooded brown coat. Across the bay leaning against the wall, a large scabbard held a massive sword, its hilt adorned with rosary beads and loose scrolls which trailed from the pommel. There was a pair of black out goggles hanging from the hilt, their sides covered with thick bits of metal.

A faint grinding noise of metal on metal cut through the thrumming air as in the gunner's seat, the blacked out metal armour clad woman extracted a thin stiletto dagger from its scabbard and ran a slender finger along its length. Her face was covered by a thick iron mask, eye holes blanked out by black pieces of gauze. The face plate was covered with many carvings, angels reached down from the heavens at the top of the mask while hell fire spilled from her neck upward. A thick reddish pony tail cascaded over one shoulder held in shape by a large metal butterfly tie off.

The plane juddered as a large gust of wind caught the underneath, catapulting the bomber forward. Not even looking up from his book, the green eyes flickered for a second; the irises extending for a split second before returning to their original state.

"Captain…." Like the knife clutched in her armoured hands, her voice cut across his hearing "…the Cromwell Restrictions have been released"

The book snapped shut and placed gently down on the metal deck plates. The green eyes rose from its resting place and with a slight clank of metal plates, Captain. A. Wrathwell rose to his feet. From the bomb bay other shapes shifted, with snap of ammo cartridges and the rattle of kit been moved as the others readied themselves. Behind him the knife slid back into the scabbard with a silvery hiss, the thin, lithe shape of the woman unfolding from her seat, the twin stilettos strapped to her back falling into place. He hefted the claymore from its resting place, pulling the buckles tight so it hung slantwise across his back

"We go to War"


	3. To Kill a Monster

Right, next chapter of this rather interesting piece. Evident of my way of working against the grain as always. Please read and Review!

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"Forget Awe and fear. The only Words I have are 'How the hell did we miss that'"

_(__Captain Wrathwell at the second Blitz of London after spotting the Major's Massive zeppelin)

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The halls of the Hellsing Mansion rang with thud of boot falls on the soft carpets as the pinstripe suit clad men made their way below the watchful eyes of the paintings that stared down at them from the walls. Through the softly lit main hall and climbing the winding stair case, Abraham Van Helsing's grim portrait greeted them as they passed into a long wooden clad corridor. Here, many more paintings of the Helsing line glared down on them from their gold clad frames.

A door opened at the end of the hall, the short, newly shaven face of the young Arthur Helsing appearing in the opening. For such a young face, the hardship taken by the 18 year old was too hard to comprehend. Seeing as the haggard Abraham Van Helsing who occupied the upper rooms of the mansion had passed down his mantle with such difficulty during this current armed struggle, it'd been up to Arthur to lead the war against unholy terrors like his own servant, the Vampire Alucard who was abroad under the watchful eye of young Walter at this time. He was too young for such a burden and it showed in his face. The fatigue and tired eyes which blazed with some hidden power, evidence of the determined and devout spirit the young boy had.

"Lord Winslow, it has been some time since you graced this house with your presence" Arthur's voice had an almost hard quality to it, the sharp tones he used were almost as if he was a man much older then himself, Lord Winslow coughed into his moustache, pulling his medals closer to his chest as around him, the other officials doffed their caps to the young man before stepping into the large room beyond the corridor.

Arthur waited until they were all seated around the large round table, their swords stowed beside their chairs and for a few, cigars been lit around the table, before he spoke. The war still had an effect on such luxurious surroundings. The windows were blacked out and most of the metal work had gone, leaving old wooden holders on table tops to stop the wax from ruining the polished top, even with the many rich men clustered round the table, dripping with expensive clothing. Arthur ground his teeth.

Still, among such conflict and suffering; the knights had long since lost their knightly values and instead taken up riches and their own scheming views to lose all self righteousness. In truth all the men had was his scorn, maybe his pity as those weak enough to lose sight of their goals to forward their own ends. For now he would have to bite his tongue; these men were his only allies in this dark time. Only Lord Winslow sat without a fat cigar, his cold blue eyes never moving from Arthur's own face.

Lord Winslow, his haggard face had lasted throughout World War 1 and 2, the large moustache slowly becoming streaked with grey as the years passed. Abraham had briefly mentioned what Lord Winslow's position had been on the round table, except Arthur couldn't quite remember. Just Abraham's words as he rolled away in his wheel chair, Walter rolling his eyes as he pushed the old man away…

"Stubborn Old Bastard"

"Why exactly have you requested this roundtable conference 'Sir' Helsing" there was a little too much emphasis on the Sir for Arthur as James Morgan, the current head of the British Espionage Agency spoke up. He was a thin man, his bony elbows resting on the wooden top as he pressed himself forward, his hooked nose putting Arthur in mind of some distressed witch.

"It has come to my attention that in this current crisis, several unsanctioned forces have been utilised and brought back into service…" Arthur rested his hands on the lacquered surface "…why exactly why weren't we informed and why are they not working alongside the main British Army"

"And what makes it your business to know the War office's motives. You listen for your orders from the Palace…" a rather bald gentleman spoke up "…and follow them, don't question our motives."

Arthur dropped into his seat at the far end of the table, pushing a proffered tray of cigars away from him. A disgusting habit, Arthur hoped no one in the Helsing line would smoke such awful things.

"Yes, but when it involves battling the supernatural it is our duty to carry out that task. Here I see another organisation with the same intentions doing our job for us…"

"Hellsing is null and void during this as your pet vampire is elsewhere. He is powerful I know, I know…" Commander Mclean of the Navy spoke up, his pressed blue suit covered with several medals "…but he can't be everywhere at the same time. We need to cover our bases and Hellsing lacks the man power to remain a secure asset for the British Government"

"Yes I understand, the paramilitary activities of the Hellsing Organisation are thinly spread, I admit but for this matter, I required a little more consultation. Why did you avoid speaking to my staff, or consulting myself?"

"Because…" Winslow spoke up "…Alucard offered all the info we really needed. He deemed it to better his interests so he came and spoke to us at his own free will. You were involved in some parts however when it came down to it the only true asset we received were the Russians. Hellsing, at that point only gave us limited scope unlike the Russians who had fought more then just Ghouls and Freaks built by the Germans"

"You are referring of course to the Nightwatch I presume" Morgan's weasily voice echoed across the room, Winslow's eyes disappearing into shadow as he furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yes …." He said after a time "…For us, I refer more to a group which has been working for our better interests for a number of years now. For their part, I must say, under my command they've been allied with you 'Sir' Helsing"

Arthur almost took smoking up as a habit at that point as he steepled his fingers, trying to break the gaze of Winslow across the table.

"Then stop with the subterfuge, the sneaking around and the internal espionage and tell me…" Arthur Helsing took a quick look around the room "…who are they?"

* * *

Captain Andrew Wrathwell mounted the small metal steps and rose into the cockpit pulling his hood back. He had to stoop, like most in the confined space, catching the back of Billy's chair in one iron gauntlet as he lowered his head to stare grimly through the quickly frosting glass.

"Sir?"

"Any sign of our target…" he spoke with the voice of some old British aristocrat, the haughty tones sounding loud and clear over the rattling engines and mounting wind "…there must be something in view at this point."

Beyond the rapidly freezing glass, rocky cliffs stole by beyond the howling winds, the waves below were not calm any more and dashed against the cliff walls like some cage animal. Ruins were visible to through the lashing rain, where large shadows filled the cliffs with eerie shapes cast by the ruined walls and fallen arches.

"The maps show some kind of large settlement near here…"

"What ever it was, it's not there now. I haven't been picking up any trace of radio signals or visuals of lights down there…." Billy's co-pilot spoke up, hands solidly wrapped around the throttle as he struggled to hold the plane steady "….what do you want me to do, Sir"

Wrathwell took a quick breath as the cliffs reared up above them "Find us an area of open ground and drop us there. Then get the hell out of here. I think there will be something big going down here tonight and it's not worth risking any more lives then we have already."

He left, staggering slightly as the plane bucked and rattled and disappeared down the metal gantry into the lower levels of the plane. Billy and the Co-pilot exchanged glances, Billy, his face dribbling with perspiration crossed himself, his hands resting on his beating heart as if to quell it.

Wrathwell's metal clad boots dropped down with a clump onto the deck plates.

"They're scared of us you know." The leering face plate lent from the shadows as knife wielding woman unfolded from her hiding place.

"Who…"

"The pilots, they know very well who we are…"

"They have a right to be…" Wrathwell moved on, hearing her fall in step behind him "…after the rumours the War office spread, it's lucky to get flight staff at all"

"You call them rumours?"

"Well, for their part, they truly have no idea what we are capable of, just guesswork and old stories"

"If you say, Andrew…"

Squad Hermes rose to their feet as Wrathwall stepped into the noisy space of the bomb bay. There were seven soldiers in all, including himself and his deadly follower. Lieutenant Lyra Seward stood close to the door, the sleeves of her thick tan M42 Great coat covered in scrolls and wax seals, the collar turned up to cover the lower portion of her face, her black tresses tumbling down the nape of her neck before been held in place by a thick silver hair grip. She had several thick volumes secured to her waist, their covers bound with chains, alchemical gauntlets adorning her hands, their surfaces carved with hundreds of runes and spell circles. She raised her burning blue eyes to the Captain as he entered, her perfect lips nearly folding into a small smile.

Beside her, Private Alfred Renfield stood at the ready, clutching a large trench gun in gnarled hands. He should've appeared young, Wrathwell knew his age from the squad records, but his face seemed to be creased with years of torment, his blond hair unkempt and face unshaven. He was wrapped in a thick black cloak, leather plates visible under the loose material.

Beside him, Marian Westenra clasped her sniper rifle to her chest, her usually mischievous face eager, short blonde air dyed white with peroxide. She was clad in several metal plates leaving the hips and head bare. This was daubed with mud, a long dull brown cloak hanging from her back to act as makeshift camouflage.

Stood opposite, Joseph Holmwood pulled his comm. pack onto his back, his tool kit slotting into place beneath it, the leather straps pulled tight. His short brown hair was tucked under a dark green cap, metal sided welders goggles hanging round his neck. His lined face was set in a look of great expectation, his manner determined as the engineer stowed his polished M35 submachine gun into its holster. Wrathwell squinted at the small squad.

"Where's Shia'ra?"

"Here." The heavily accented voice rolled across the space as behind Wrathwall, the shadows moved and Shia'ra, draped in the usual black cloth niqab rose from the entrance to the front of the plane. She had a leather satchel strapped to her back, steel greaves emerging from the base of the knee high robe. Her hands were covered in runic tattoos, the scrawling script rising up into the wide sleeves and disappearing from view under the thick cloth.

"Full squad here and ready to be deployed…" Harker's razor sharp voice sounded from behind him as the female ninja scratched at the base of her mask, eyes flashing beneath the gauze which covered her face. "…what are your orders, Wrathwell?"

"Captain" Wrathwell muttered darkly.

"Loverboy…" Harker purred.

There was a murmur and several sniggers followed by a short string of coughing from Marian who was struggling to hold onto her rifle. Renfield rested a warning hand on her shoulder. Wrathwell ground his teeth.

"Five days ago we received a secret transmission from our sources in Germany referring to a certain project. This was immediately forwarded to us. Hellsing has been rendered null while Alucard is in Germany so in his place, we've been called in. And High command deemed it correct to have a show of force to show the world that we've still got it."

"Even though we're classified…"

"Well, at least prove to the War Office that relying on a small organisation with credentials is a fool's errand when we have the man power and the expertise."

"It'll give the Vatican something to chew on too…" Holmwood fiddled with his thick goggles "…they've been breathing down our necks from the beginning"

"Anyway, the transmission referred to a group known as Millennium and the Cromwell Project. From what we're told, the Nazi's plan to punch a hole into the Deathly Realms and harness the power most real vampires consume and control, I am not souly referring to the half arsed variety which don't know their backside from their elbows. Once they have the hole, opened through some kind of blood ritual they plan to turn ghouls into super soldiers and existing 'Freaks' into something more…." Wrathwell pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb "…for that matter, this is a search and destroy to stop that portal opening"

"Why exactly here, Skip? Why Norway? What's so special about this location?"

"Its where several Ley lines gate in one singular whole. An old cathedral marks the spot where the first vampire walked the earth, effectively binding itself with death before it left. Unlike popular rumour, Alucard was not the first. It bound itself to a large altar in the central section where the ley lines meet and is the weakest point between here and the Vampire King's realm. It's had a particularly dark past, built by the Vatican in the early 1600s it was ruled by a rather officious priest who went mad with power, deemed the entire population of the nearby town as heretics and burned the place to the ground. From that point on the earth was tainted with the blood of many a virgin as their souls were sacrificed to God in a belief that it would instil divine penitence on the world and punish all for their sins, especially protestants. The Pope then realised the folly of his actions and deemed enough was enough, sending soldiers to raze the place to the ground. When they reached the cathedral, all they found were corpses, blood and crazed worshippers who'd turned their blades onto their own flesh in a belief that it brought them closer to God. The place burned that night, the priest holding a hellish sermon above the burning flames as he burned with the place he believed to be holy. And the Altar remained, as if watching the world around it collapse. As the place fell, it remained."

The Lancaster juddered as the squad held its breath, Wrathwell fishing a large paper folder from the folds of his coat.

"Here we go again..." Renfield muttered to Marian "....just leave it to the Catholics to screw things up. We've already got one bastard after our hides"

"Hunter Maxwell has got his name printed on one of my bullets..." she murmured back, thumbing the safety catch of her rifle. "...dress wearing wanker, even Shia'ra has better dress sense"

"...and that 'holier then thou' attitude..." Holmwood muttered as Wrathwell pulling yet another piece of paper from the folder, blinking at the scribble owlishly.

"...and that. I mean its just so showy, you could see those Knights of Malta a mile off. It took them all five minutes each to introduce themselves. I don't want to listen to some zealot screaming how he's going to top himself for five minutes"

"Specially seeing as there were five hundred of them"

"Most of our lot had packed up and gone home by the time they were done. Couldn't quite run fast enough in those stupid white robes to keep up with us."

Wrathwell coughed, Renfield snapping back to attention as Marian chortled to herself behind his bulk.

"In recent years, it has stood empty, been used occasionally for pagan festivals where animals would be sacrificed, their blood scattered across the altar…." He paused, turning a page "…there were no survivors"

Marian whistled, Holmwood's face whitening.

"And now by some ritual, and I bet it will be bloody, the Nazi's hope to harness it to their own ends, using to open some portal from this world into the next."

"What are we looking at Captain…?" Shia'ra spoke

Marian coughed again, brushing Renfield's arm off her shoulder "Big…..Bad Mojo"

Wrathwell hefted his claymore as the ringing of bells began to fill the space. The rumble of engines slowed as the cross winds ceased, the craft beginning to slow. Wrathwell pulled the straps tight, securing the large sword, its pommel sticking over his right shoulder.

"Squad Hermes, who are we?!"

* * *

"Knights Templar…" Arthur Helsing breathed "…after half a millennia in hiding, you dispatched a squad of Knights to deal with a modern day threat. Do they know what they're dealing with?"

"Very much so…" Lord Winslow leant forward in his seat, arms crossed "…you see, unlike knights of yore; the old romantic view of knights in shining armour, we thought different. Rather then having, lets say, the old variety, we fight fire with fire, magic with magic, bullet with sword and blade with bullet. In fact…" he sneered rather unpleasantly "…how do you put it when you try to persuade us that your 'Vampire King' is necessary. Oh yes that was it '…humans make poor vampire hunters; they are easily corrupted and cut down in the field of battle. The best way to slay a vampire is with another more stronger vampire…' Except we've gone one step further…." The sneer widened "…rather then choosing from the ranks of the undead like you, who crave power through eternal life and the joy of battle, we chose something rather more alive and I assure you, like your 'pet' the squad who are dealing with the Nazis are just as monstrous, just as deadly and at this very moment in time, on their way to their mission objective."

* * *

_Character Profile: Cabalist Shia'ra_

_Age: 24_

_Height: 5ft 8_

_Hair Colour: Unknown_

_Eye Colour: Red Flecked Hazel _

_Religion: Muslim_

_Preferred Armament: Tokarev TT-33__ Pistol, One Multi Filament Cabal Knife_

_Apparel: Standard Templar Breast Plate, Traditional Niqab (Worn over the armour), two mercury Bracelets on either hand with inlaid silver weaving._

_One of the youngest members of Squad Hermes of 24, the young Muslim is one of the few Multi-faith soldiers working for Lord Winslow. Renowned for her healing abilities, she was revered in her home village in rural of Kazakhstan as a direct link to Allah and a holy gift. This however as short lived after it was found that the blood held within that human vessel was tainted with black magic allowing the smallest cut to become dark portals to other realms._

_ From this, awe turned to fear as uncontrolled, the dark spirits prevalent in her blood left a bloody swathe through her home and surrounding village, vast worms of macabre energy exploding from holes of dark matter to tear asunder any who could not run fast enough and dragging them back to a gruesome death. And all because of a nose bleed… _

_Knowing of her 'powers' she was found by the Church in 1928, hiding in caves to the north of the abandoned village which had once been her home, Shia'ra was brought to a sanctuary in London, to study under one of Britain's greatest cabalists, Sir Lenord Winslow. There she learnt many arcane arts, controlling the energy contained within her blood to move to her will been able to seal portals, lock doors, bind spirits, summon creatures and heal wounds. _

_However, even now her blood is still a danger to her squad mates; she constantly wears her traditional Niqab which is soaked in a mercury/Silver/water mix, her hands tattooed with Cabal runes to control the Blood Energy so that the accident which occurred at her home will never happen again. _


	4. By the Grace of God, Allah, etc, etc

Right next chapter up. The title and the quotes prove how there is some black humor within the story especially through Marian, the sniper. Kinda wish there were a few more reviews as most of the hits come from the first chapter and then that is it......

* * *

**By the Grace of God, Allah and all of the Above**

**

* * *

**

"I don't know what is worse; the apocalypse or Wrathwall screaming over the anarchy "This can be so easily explained"

Shira recorded commenting after the Dresden Incident (1945)

* * *

The Lancaster banked, its wing tips nearly catching the trees as its engines droned through the howling winds of its passage. Light spilled from its open bomb doors, reflecting off the snow below as it wheeled round, pulling up over a large scar cut from the hillside. As it broke free of the winds to drop onto the other side of the large rift, grey shapes dropped from the open bays, falling at incredible speeds into the trees below, more shapes followed, these were much slower, falling on black material parachutes which were hard to spot in the dark air. These too broke through the tree level disappearing from view. The Lancaster's engines roared, the rotors moving back to original speed before the bomber was gone, leaving only its exhaust trails as it fled back out into the open sea.

* * *

Arthur rested his hands on the lacquered table as several bound documents slid across the table from the nonchalant Lord Winslow. They were bound with a single red thread which ran from each sound, meeting in the middle where a large wax seal held them in place. He took a quick look at Winslow, the older man leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed. He could easily recognise the blood seal from this distance; the thick red string was covered in tiny runes under closer inspection. It would never open without the correct key; blood of a round table representative and remain sealed until burnt. Arthur pulled his sword an inch from its scabbard beside his chair so only a thin sliver of metal was visible and sliced a finger.

With his finger dripping with blood he allowed a single drop to splatter across the seal. Instantly the string began to smoke, the cords coming apart and the document falling open. The wax seal fell away in his hands as the paper fell forth. Squad records, mission studies, several gory pictures and several witness accounts appeared to make up the thick document, Arthur shifting aside several slips of paper until one caught his eye. It was a large affair, the symbol of the Knights Templar, an open compass and set square, printed across the top. Curiously in the gap where the writing began and the logo, a large spread eagled Raven was inscribed in black ink.

Helsing raised an eyebrow.

"The bird of wisdom? Why do you have a Nordic symbol when you are classed as defenders of the church?"

"It was deemed necessary to look beyond the doctrine of the church and find other means of destroying vampires and other lesser daemons. For our part, the last 20 years have been made through study and learning, to gain knowledge and culminating all our resources from all over the world. We…in all sense of the word…went rogue…." He paused "…utilising black magic and therefore going against the church's doctrine with our blatant disregard for Christian teachings and having atheists and other faiths making up our squads, a method deemed heretical by both the Catholics and the Protestants"

Winslow still had his eyes closed as the men around the table broke into muttering, the dull rumble of flemy palettes echoing through the room. Arthur took a quick glance back at the Raven.

"You're heretics in the eyes of the church….!"

"And the Catholics, Section XIII does not like us one bit. They've tried to assassinate me many a time…" he spoke with a rather bored air, as if cleaning some dirt from beneath his finger nails "…however the good priests were a little over estimated and horribly underestimated the power of my Templar knights"

One picture showed a macabre scene, a man was crucified to several metal railings, the Vatican visible in the distance. He was wrapped in chains, his crucifix hanging loose from the man's mutilated neck. His shoes were several metres of the ground where blood dribbled, gathering in a gory puddle below him. Written in blood in a curling, looping script were the words; 'Should have left well enough alone'.

"This is a straight up declaration of war, you do realise that."

"We are fully aware of the consequences of our actions. In fact, their have already been several skirmishes between my Knights and members of Section XIII. We let none live and I do believe the Pope has a now got a larger thorn in his side then he first expected."

Winslow grinned as the room dropped into silence. Arthur was painfully aware of another darker presence in the room as he splayed his fingers. They were monsters. He'd seen some things in his time but the lengths and sheer cruelty that had come into play to leave that Totem behind was…..sickening.

"You're monsters…"

"And so is Alucard."

* * *

Private Renfield caught a high branch as he fell, twisting his body in the air before falling to the forest floor below. The branch merely acted to slow his flight downwards as the heavily muscled body of the soldier contorted, landing perfectly on the snow bound ground, sending tremors across the soft ground and scattering of snow falling from the trees surrounding the small chink of moonlight. It appeared to be some kind of trappers' path, there was a slight indent where the pine needles seemed to have little effect, unlike the heaps which covered the forest floor. He pulled his cloak closer to him as he quickly moved into shadow as the dull drone of engines faded away.

Harker was more elegant in her descent, gloved fingers catching a thin branch bringing her closer to the tree trunk, allowing her willowy shape to glide down the glistening bark, her boot heels leaving little trace of her passage.

Lyra descended at speed, her coat billowing round her form as she rolled in midair, turning to face the on coming ground which roared up toward her. She broke through the tree tops hands whirling out in front of her as the gauntlets began to glow with an unholy green light, marking each rune and each symbol inscribed on their surface. There was a dull tone and like some strange heat shimmer, the air flickered, Lyra's form slowing absurdly a matter of metres from the forest floor. It was if she'd been engulfed by a invisible sheet tied between the trees, ready to catch her. Gravity righted itself, depositing her slight form on the needle strewn earth. Renfield sniffed the air.

"I hate that smell, why didn't you use a parachute like the others…" his hoarse voice was the only noise among the dark trees "…I can't sense anything else in this darkness with that blasted stench!!" Lyra made a noise of a mouse been trodden on as the larger man snarled, almost seeming to rear out of the shadows. Harker's hand caught him just as the larger man's hackles rose. She leant forward, Renfield's nostrils flaring as he caught the slight smell of rotting meat which emanated from behind her large metal mask.

"Calm it Private or the Captain will give you a world of trouble"

They hared away from the clearing, the silent night becoming filled with the sound of their feet thrumming on the hard earth. Over rocky mounds and brambles their shadows flitted, their steps light and quick, Renfield's movements were almost animal as he dropped close to the floor, his cloak billowing out behind his back. Flitting from shadow to shadow, Harker was always by his side, sometimes sprinting along the ground, sometimes appearing to skip from tree to tree almost immediately. Lyra was having a little more trouble keeping up as her books bounced off her hips; she kept going though, her breaths coming in short gasps.

* * *

A claymore erupted from the branches above and imbedded itself in the ground, in the shadow of a rocky precipice. It sent the pine needles flying as its owner followed it, his parachute snagging in a tree and landing Wrathwall on his feet, his hands reaching for the pommel of his sword as the encompassing straps of the parachute broke away. It snapped into its sheath, the buckles snapping close. Wrathwall, pulled the goggles down over his eyes, their lenses failing to reflect the moon light high above and with a flurry of brown cloth, was gone into the dark forest.

* * *

Lyra stumbled, her hands catching the needle covered ground below. She couldn't call out to the others, their shadows moving from one moon shadow to another far ahead. Her throat was dry, her breaths coming short as the forest closed in around her. Nothing moved, there was no wind and the stench of ozone on the breeze burned her nostrils and her mind as the darkness in the air rolled on. It wasn't just the night she could feel. Among the trees, a great sense…a great sense of evil was horribly present. Under that full moon, under that evil orb something else moved within the forest. No wonder the animals were still, they sensed what was out here too. Lyra whimpered, pulling her overcoat close to her body.

She was new, to say the least, her first true field operation under the watchful eye of Wrathwall, her commander and her near idol. She could easily remember him striding through the fires to seize her still body from the bare patch of floor she'd sought sanctuary, ignoring the jeering shouts of the mob outside. She'd lent against him then, the smell of peppermint and lavender rushing the stench of smoke away as they left. She hadn't wanted this, to be truly alone in this evil place. She wanted that little piece of safety, that little bare patch of floorboard, the warm embrace of Wrathwall.

Something shifted in the dark, Lyra reaching for her pistol. She screamed as rough hands grabbed her and hefted her up, a hand clamping over her mouth, her shouts becoming muffled against the coarse skin. Renfield's voice echoed through her hearing….

"Quiet…its me…..quiet, we don't want every single Nazi in this place knowing we're here…" she stopped, obligingly as the larger man released his hand, allowing her to take a quick quavering breath "…and we don't want the Captain seeing you in such a state or you will be transferred. Now, you can ride on my back as you seem to be struggling."

"I'm so sorry…"

"I should be apologising to you Ma'am, you are my superior after all…" he rumbled, sounding almost self conscious as he pulled her up onto his back, her knees digging into his sides as her arms wrapped around his neck "…bloody hell, if Marian could see me now"

And they were gone, Lyra's hands round his broad neck as Renfield's wolf like running caused the ground to thrum with movement. They leapt from moonshadow to moonshadow, their forms combined in one large mass, the rookie's tresses flying out behind her. Harker watched them go, her eyes following their progress from her high perch on a tree branch.

"You're losing your touch Renfield…" she murmured "…don't let Winslow see that"

* * *

Schrödinger's purring was truly starting to get on Oberst Stimmelheimer's nerves as she stalked into the command tent, dropping her grey jacket onto the side and reaching for the ever open bottle of blood which sat beside her large lacquered black coffin. He was sprawled across several chairs, mouth wide open, fangs rather disturbingly fully extended. It was hard to add the cat ears to the Hitler Youth Uniform and for the Oberst, the catboy gave the military a bad image. Especially the tail…

She raised an eyebrow. For starters, the Oberst was a military follower through and through having an iron clad soul to match her cruel personality. She wasn't overly sadistic; several others had given her a rather bad name in the past, going beyond the realms of sanity. She knew there was a task and that task had to be completed, at what ever the cost, for both Germany and the Furher. The Major's ulterior motives were going a little beyond that, even after he'd bestowed his 'Gift' upon her. And she'd had some access to a new workforce, a new army.

Still, these undead scum were no match for true German soldiers, their armies tirelessly spanning the globe. She did not want to know what the Major was up to, meet that sniveling black hair, long sighted sniper again or engage in conversation with that egghead named 'The Doc'.

And it, she caught the boy across the knees with a discarded clipboard. He yowled, nearly spilling her drink over the floor, struggling to entangle himself from the chair as she stalked across the room, carefully rubbing at a single spot of blood embedded on her lapel.

"Zis is the virst time Oberst? Vhy do you insist on vaking me each time you enter thiz tent?"

"Oberstammführe Schrödinger, your laziness is a zore point vor the entire garrison. Be more of an example unt ztop zleeping in my tent!!"

The tin mug caught the boy between the eyes, sending him yowling into a bank of equipment.

"If zeh major vas here…"

"Yes but he iz not?"

Grumbling the catboy was gone, leaving the Oberst pinching the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. He sprinted through the soldiers, leaping over wires before he found a warm patch beside a generator. Purring, he dropped to his knees and sprawled out beside it, ears twitching.

"Vor Got sake!!! Go elsevere or I'll see you shot!!" For the sentries along the walls, it was amazing how far and how clearly the Oberst's voice traveled as the Warrant Officer was gone from his hiding place.

* * *

The speed was marvellous, Lyra thought as the wind ran its fingers through her hair. The trees whipped past, their empty bark full of shadows. She felt safe, her fingers wrapped around Renfield's broad shoulders, his cloak brushing against her armoured legs as it billowed out like wings either side of her. He ran as if she weighed nothing at all, leaping over a fallen wall which gave Lyra the impression of flight for a split second before his boot impacted on the dry earth and thrumming of his feet filled her ears once more.

That had been some old entrance, some old gatehouse of some kind she realised as the ruins disappeared into the murk as the Private sprinted on, his body leaning into the hill as they reached a slight incline. She caught quick flashes of movement in the trees on either side, dark shapes keeping pace with their fast tread.

"It's the others…" Renfield growled, feeling her heart beat quicken "…Harker is on the right, Marian on the left. Don't worry"

From the rest of the squad, Alfred Renfield seemed the least distant from the rest. The tall brooding man always seemed at home in the Library deep beneath Saint Pauls, swaddled in his cloak with his boots on the tables as he leafed through some huge volume as Librarians tutted, his mugs of coffee leaving marks on the tables. For his part however, it seemed the others were scared of him, his appearance becoming more and more haggard as the months wore on, disappearing every few weeks for unknown reasons.

When she'd spent some time with the squad when she'd been transferred all those months ago, she'd asked Marian why. The short woman had snorted derisively, referring merely to the fact the Renfield had lady problems every month and wasn't sure whether he was a man or a woman.

That wasn't quite the answer that she'd been looking for, glaring daggers at the back of Marian's peroxide dyed hair as she walked away. Usually sniggering….

And so it had continued. The group were unsociable at best, Wrathwall spent most of his time asleep, reading or propping up a bar somewhere. Shia'ra, when you could pin her down was in the Library, washing her hands or checking her body for scars and cuts. Harker was best avoided, even at the happier times whereas Holmwood was never there, spending most of his time in the labs and engineering.

And Marian of course was cleaning her rifle…..which she always did……its many parts scattered over a table, making derisive comments at passing squads, sniffing around the female librarians, eating, sleeping, complaining, trading witty anecdotes with Captain Wrathwall, teasing the rookies, fishing, racketeering, smuggling, sodomising, blaspheming, doodling in the bible, carving, whittling, drinking, reading gun magazines, drooling over centrefolds, practicing, avoiding paperwork, eventually doing paperwork, procrastinating and whistling when she was in a particularly dangerous mood. Wrathwall refused to come out his cellar room for several days after one incident when the 5 foot 6 sniper had whistled the entire Ring Cycle after a rather long episode shadowing some dignitary, Holmwood sleeping under his desk for several nights after that while the bored sniper wandered the upper corridors hunting for ghouls. The true pain of having a photographic memory among many other talents....

* * *

The walls of the Cathedral were cold and desolate as in the cold wind the two German soldiers in the highest tower brought their hands to their face and blew into their hands to warm them. Even in the thick grey uniform, the cold wind still cut through them like knifes. Only the Officers were allowed to where the long great coats which blocked out most of the cold.

Apart from the Oberst who was parading around below in shirt sleeves as she drank red wine and watched the men at work who seemed completely oblivious to the cold. And the select others who stalked in the shadows around the vast space of the central chamber, their movements hard to follow.

A ring was been lowered in position around the alter, a thick metal affair which was round a foot thick with enormous plugs built into the sides. Suspended above the altar, a vast gyroscope object was been erected made up of two metal rings and thick metal pole which held it in place. There was no wind, the night was completely still and yet the rings moved very slightly, their steel coatings catching the light as they slowly twirled. If you watch a little longer and with great difficultly, however, you could easily see the rings gaining speed the nearer to the Altar they got, but as ever uncaring and impatient, the sentries never really had time to look.

The trees moved with the slight breeze, their needles once again scattering to the smothered floor below. The moon was particularly strong tonight; it was easy to see the light off the sea as the moonlight caught the wave tops, catching the trees and the cold dark stones of the cathedral. Atop one of the vast pillars which erupted from the many pews below, shadows moved. A lone shape landed lightly, boots barely disturbing the rock surface as they paused, watching the work far below before they were gone, a fleeting shape in the dark.

Schrödinger watched it go, his features twisting into a lopsided sneer as he began to snigger into the night.

* * *

Renfield ducked a branch, the leaves catching Lyra's cheek as they passed. They'd began to slow, Renfield's boots leaving little impact was they began to ghost along, his movements slow and silent. The other shadows had gone, veering away several hundred metres back down to the track to take up positions elsewhere. Only Harker remained, her lithe shape coming closer and closer to the track. The ruins were becoming more and more apparent as they passed wall after wall and arch after arch, fallen columns lying strewn across the paths. He paused, landing lightly on top of a rotting stump. A tree shifted, casting strange moon shadow over Renfield.

In the brightest patches, the man seemed to boil out of existence, Lyra could feel him shudder each time they left the shadows and sprinted across the few open areas. He was shuddering now, Lyra sliding down his back and landing heavily on the floor. Ahead, the ruins were lit by many searchlights which sent a dull glow across the sky above, the rumble of machinery activating echoing through the dark forest. Renfield growled in pain as behind them, a twig snapped. She turned, coming face to face with large metal face mask of Harker as she dropped lightly from the trees. This close to her face, it was easy to smell the stench of rot which emanated from the mask as Harker brushed her aside, making straight for Renfield.

"Pull yourself together soldier. Just a while longer…"

"Speak for yourself…" he said through gritted teeth. "…you try doing this every month."

Lyra started as wolves began to call somewhere else in the forest. The breeze began to move the trees as something else shifted in the dark forest, something animal. She couldn't tell whether it was evil, just something else, moving just beyond the range of the trees.

* * *

The rifle clattered down onto the dark earth as Marian Westenra pulled herself up onto the rocky outcrop, her gloves scrabbling over the rocky surface as she hunted for hand holes and ledges. The outcrop had finally evened out, the sniper rolling over onto her back as she heaved herself over the ledge and lay there gasping, her heaving chest causing the metal plating to grind together as she rolled over, taking the rifle in one hand.

"Right…" she murmured, half to herself, half to the air around her "…lets take a look-see shall we…" She pressed the scope to her eye and hefted the SMLE No1 Mk III sniper rifle to her eye and took a quick glance down into the cathedral. It occupied a slight basin which filled in the gap between several rocky peaks which tore from the forest floor below and pointed accusingly at the sky. Below, soldiers could be seen sprinting through the dark halls, their rifles ready as the gyroscope in the central chamber was finally lowered into position, the rings beginning to turn. The last wires were been slowly slotted into place around the Altar base, their coils covered with mud. Some of the soldiers who maneuvered the wires into place seemed to stiff, their arms moving jerkily unlike the other soldiers. Marian allowed her scope to pan across the small group of the stiff soldiers. Fangs filled her vision, her finger tightening on the trigger. Ghouls….ghouls here?

The scope flicked off them, running along the crowd of scientists at their instruments, settling on the blond hair of a Nazi officer who stalked among the troops, barking orders or waving gloved hands to the Ghoul squads. She could see other soldiers too, they appeared to be sticking to the gloom as they moved, their grey coats brushing along the dirt as they walked. She caught sight of the slight glimmer of red beneath the brim of their helmets, their eyes glinting as fangs caught the light. Vampires, she felt a slight chill, especially when spotting the Nazi Youth who lay, arms behind his head, snoring on a nearby pillar, his face twisted in a constant smirk even when asleep. What were more absurd were the cat ears which erupted from his straw colored hair. Marian snarled quietly, finger tightening. They were all so close but she had to wait, to be patient….

* * *

"Your Squad's credentials are classified I guess"

Winslow nodded, not taking his eyes off Arthur. Throughout the house, the clocks were chiming for the midnight hour, the other members of the Round Table had long since left in their well upholstered cars. Only Winslow remained, feet on the table, tilting his chair back.

"Why the secrecy? They know about Alucard and it doesn't help. Why not make the information known to the Others?"

"Firstly the Nazi's aren't our only enemies. We fight the Vatican just as much as we hunt Vampires or fight in this war. For now the squad's name and background will remain hidden and you will not be able to access them. We're here to fight the Monsters, to fight the greatest evils that walk this earth. And for now, we're hunting in Norway. Do not be mistaken on thinking that is our only squad however Arthur…" he raised an eyebrow, Helsing realising this was the first time he'd been addressed directly "…we have many others, scattered across the England, the World, within each government organisation or religious faction. They feed me information and prototypes so that we may stay one step ahead of most fighting forces and any other monsters. There is more in play on this petty world then just the Vampires you hunt. There's us and then there is the Black. Alucard has to gain his powers from somewhere; he is tapped directly into the darkness which waits on the other with one foot into this world. He can utilise that power to his advantage as he is one with the shadow. He is more of a conduit to the dead realms while what is occurring in Norway is much different. The Nazi's aim to open a portal and tap into anything that comes through, effectively harnessing this vast resource of black mana."

"How do they hope to open such a portal?"

Winslow closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. "My sources tell me through use of a karma bomb, QED they'll use some kind of vessel to hold dead souls from some massacre or war built up over time and release them beside The Box. Or they'll perform some kind of sacrifice and allow the souls to spill across The Box"

"The Box….?"

"An old relic, said to be the first site where man bound himself with the darkness. Seeing as the soul is supposedly sealed within the blood, hence the reason Alucard can absorb people's souls and likenesses through drinking their blood, it holds great energy. So you release that and as the person soul is cut asunder, it creates a vast amount of energy."

Winslow was silent as the room was filled with the noise of ticking clocks as down the halls, the mechanisms began to turn, twelve o'clock fast approaching.

"Damn…"

Winslow nodded…

"We're really out of our depth aren't we?"

"Hellsing is up against a new foe, we're up against an ancient one which has dwelt within this world for millennia. I think it's true to say that yes…….you really are."


	5. Ode to Colonel Bogey

**Ode to Colonel Bogey**

* * *

_"For the blood split on these stones, under that baleful moon and under the eyes of the pack, may your tongue be ripped out for your insolence!!"_

Alfred Renfield (1930)

* * *

"Excuse me Sir…Sir!!"

Lyra stumbled, struggling to hold onto her bags. A few feet away, Holmwood sighed, taking a long look at the many packing cases the woman was carrying.

"Leave them here, Miss. You can collect them later…" Lyra raised an eyebrow at the soldier. He just stood there, hands deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers, his eyes flashing behind the rimless glasses; he could have at least offered to help her with them. She still had the evening rain dripping from her hair, the saturated streets high above her head seeming a world away from the softly lit passages of Bastion.

"…you may want to see your room before you collect your things"

They occupied a beautifully carved stone corridor somewhere beneath London, where gargoyles peered down on her from over hanging arches, lit by many thick candles. She pulled her frock coat around her form, pulling the peaked cap down even more firmly down round her ears. She left the bags behind, beside the large metal doors to elevator.

They passed an open door, the ward marks visible were painted with a weird purple ink which stained the yellow of the sandstone and looked almost like some kind of well taught graffiti. A pair of bare feet was visible around the open door lying on an unmade bed, the slow wisps of cigarette smoke rising in the still air, the many posters plastered across the walls covered with stickers and occasionally; darts.

The quiet sound of music echoed down the halls, the scratch of a gramophone causing the lone female singer to rasp through choruses. He turned left again, stepping through a large arch and into the large space beyond. Covered with bookshelves, that library was marginally empty apart from the occasional Librarians, studying soldiers who were holed up in alcoves around the room. The door came out on a large balcony made up of looping wrought iron which descended in a large spiral stair case onto the floor below. The bookshelves were gathered a large space in the centre of the floor where large tables were strewn with books and notes as well as two massive black boards around 12 feet across which were covered with notes and chalk drawings.

"Wrathwall ordered that you would be quartered near the library so that you may study and keep in contact with the staff of the facility…."

"Wrathwell?"

"…or that, we're not sure. Marian changes it once per week…." Joseph muttered, pushing the glasses up to the bridge of his nose. "…the Captain prefers Wrathwell."

"Sir…"

"For now, I think we should lay down some ground rules. Firstly, do not disturb the Captain when he's sleeping. Second, do not throw balls around Alfred Renfield during full moon; it took us ages to get him back last time. Third, do not under any circumstances cut yourself in front of Harker. Fourth, do not leave sharp objects near Shia'ra. Fifth, do not place bets with Marian, you will lose. And 6th, don't bug me…"

She snapped her gloved hand to her forehead in salute "Yes Sir!!"

"….at any time."

He was gone, dropping down into the Library below. Lyra felt slightly lost. She could see robed men and women moving among the shelves lit by large braziers above. She clutched at the wrought iron banister to steady her and stared down. There was a single figure seated near to her position, feet up on a table, large cap pulled down over his eyes as if asleep.

She dropped onto the first step and descended down into the musty smelling gloom, the books rising up to meet her. She had the horrible feeling she was been watched from all angles, the robed librarians had their hoods pulled up; she could see eyes flashing beneath. She pulled the coat even tighter, heart racing as other dark shadows moved, their path hard to follow.

"Ignore them…" Lyra almost screamed as one shadow unfolded, a large metal mask rearing from the dark. A woman emerged, dressed in a figure hugging grey coat, a perfect ebony hand reaching out in greeting "…they have little interest in you or your business. If they deemed you a threat, you would have been dead a long time ago. My name's Harker. You must be Lyra."

Lyra seized the proffered hand, feeling slightly shocked how deathly cold it was. Harker's perfect fingers gripped her own, their slim and soft underneaths curling round her own scarred hands. A strange warmth seemed to overtake her for a second, the heat rising in her cheeks as the mask filled her vision. And then she was gone, disappearing back into the darkness.

Lyra stared at her now empty hand, slightly surprised and confused as Harker's last words floated back to her.

"Glad to have you newbie"

* * *

Memories were torn away as Lyra was jerked back to the world of the living as they dropped into cover, facing the chasm which split them from the entrance to the ruins. The night was filled with a chill so great, its cold fingers could be felt clawing at the corners of her mind as high above, the moon took on a sickly green hue. Like some baleful eye it glared down on the nightmarish scene, half covered by clouds which had began to gather. The feeling of dread was all too present...

Holmwood dropped silently onto the hard granite floor of the old cathedral and darted into the shadow of several large packing crates. He could hear the Nazi's moving around in the other rooms, their boot falls loud and sharp in the quiet, generators rumbling just at the edge of his hearing as he stooped low, drawing his machine gun from its holster and prepping the ammo cartridge. He dropped the thick leather tool pouch onto the floor, rolling it open as he glanced up, checking for targets. Nothing greeted him, just the harsh voices in the other rooms as the German soldiers busied themselves with equipment.

The inside of the pouch was covered with large leather pockets, their insides either sown shut, their contents well guarded while others spewed small silver chain or cogs, steaming as they met the light. He pulled out a small silver pocket watch, its sides inscribed with cogs intricately placed as if one was looking within a machine. He attached the thin silver chain to a large carved metal gauntlet which covered his right arm, its surface made up of several segments of silver metal, their surfaces carved and inscribed. The chain slotted into a thick loop of metal on the underside, before running up into the flax jacket sleeve and disappearing from view.

The Engineer wore several thick mud brown metal plates over the jacket which ran down to his waist, thick metal pauldrons covering his shoulders. These were all inscribed with hundreds of small sigils, each resembling some kind of cog or gear. Like all Templar, his legs were covered with a thick pair of metal greaves, their surfaces covered once again with the cog stencils.

He rolled the kit back up, pushing it back into place beneath his backpack, the leather straps pulling tight, the small stopwatch resting in the dirt beside him. When this was done, he rose to his feet, the watch clutched in the metal gauntlet. There was a small button on the top of the watch, imbedded in the carvings. It appeared to be rising as he watched, the casing seeming to glow with some unknown light. The chain too began to glow blue, the light slowly travelling along its length as he watch, disappearing up his sleeve. It was emitting a blue smoke as it met the air, the very air rippling in the heat. Across his armour, the cogs began to be outlined in blue light, the packing crates lit by the supernatural glow.

Holmwood grinned, his glasses reflecting the light leaving his eyes in shadow behind them. And as his thumb met the single button, his body like a torch amongst the black, his grin got wider.

The gyroscope dropped into place after several minutes manoeuvring the wires into position for the fifth and final time. The noise of generators firing began to fill the air as at her back, the soldiers gathered, ready to witness the sceptical of the portal. She didn't discipline them for it; she was just as curious as the rest. For one, the Major who'd ordered the Operation had instructed them to merely attach a gyroscope contraption, which he'd supplied onto the top of 'The Box'. The information was lacking which had bugged the Oberst, the horrible feeling they were all puppets in the Major's game was still, horribly, very clear still there.

"Oberst…"

"Ya….herr Doctor." She turned as one of the white coated technicians spoke up.

"Ve're nearly veady vith the firing coils"

"Fire them then…"

"Ya Frauline"

"Ya Gut mein Oberst…." Cranko, her body guard muttered from beside her, his grey coat moving in the breeze, grey scarf pulled up over his mouth to hide the fangs "…Ve vill reverse this stupid Var vonce and vor all"

"For Mein Furher Cranko…"

"Ya mein Oberst…" he muttered back, baring his teeth below the grey. "….vot do you plan to do ven ve're done?"

"Go home…." She said simply, face serious while Cranko coughed "….Mein Hund requires my attention" visions of the Oberst's large woolly mongrel waiting for her at home were a little to out of place, she never seemed to show much softness, but this was different. Heinz, as she called it was a vast black dog with large teeth and strangely, a very friendly temperament. Stimmelheimer adored it, always saving food from staff dinners to take back to it.

The rings began to spin, the scream of air passing through the quickly accelerating rings began to fill the air, the soldiers' coats caught in the breeze the thing was creating. The pressure was immense. The Oberst caught her hat as the wind tugged at her hair, pale face leaning back as energy cascades began to ripple down from the metal casing of the rings onto the black obsidian box below. It reached its top speed remarkably quickly; the Oberst had expected it to take longer as the rings blurred. The box appeared to be gathering energy too, large cascades of eldritch lighting was rolling across its dark surface as they watched. Light ran along the carvings, the cracks picked out in that sickly green light as it seemed to draw in everything around it.

A searchlight tore from its bearings and smashed into 'The Box'. Its glass shattered and its metal coating broke away and began to circle around the gyroscope.

"Steady....Steady!!!" the Oberst raised a hand as several of the men yelled in near panic.

She could feel it, what ever waited beyond the spinning rings; something was gnawing at her soul as she watched, maybe the hounds of hell at her heels. It just seemed so wrong, the roaring rings filling her mind with baleful red eyes glaring into her very being, the corrupted thing she'd become in that cruel room where he, the white coated nightmare had implanted her with vampirism, her curse and her life.

She backed away, pushing through the oblivious men who stared in awe at the ball of power, hand reaching for the pistol at her hip as she stumbled. She had to get away from it, away from the madness that waited for them on the other side. The war could be won without the cheap tricks of the Major and his freak army, his ideas were mad and there was something she could do to save her soulless being.

Something tutted behind her. That tail….

Schrödinger sneered, his tail twitching as his ears flicked.

"Ve seem to be losink our cool Oberst"

"Nein…I…"

* * *

Wrathwell let his chin rest on the pommel of his sword, it's pointed embedded in the grey rock of the precipice, his eyes filled with the glow of the complex below. He could see the vast gyroscope been lowered into place, the gathering of soldiers, their eyes never leaving the hypnotic display. He squinted, focusing on the cat boy who stalked among the ranks with authority which looked out of place seeing how short he was. Each step he took, the ears flicked and tail fluttered, he was almost skipping as he passed the massed ranks of vampires who stood just out of the spotlight, 20 or so he could count.

He could feel 'things' gathering on the other side of the rift that was been torn in space and time, their intellects vast and all knowing. High above, the clouds were wheeling around the eye of the storm as cold wind rippled his coat as the darkness once again turned its baleful eye on the world.

He furrowed his eyebrows. He could see the white peroxide hair from here as Marian pulled herself into position, the large sniper rifle been armed. There was a blur of air far below around the generators as Holmwood moved about his task. Down the valley, Harker and Renfield hunkered down behind a low wall, while Lyra had pulled herself up on a nearby column and was surveying the scene before them. The was a flicker of black cloth as what appeared to be a black rag on the wind dropped down from the northern cliffs, down into the halls far below.

* * *

Shia'ra landed with ease, her niqab flowing round her body and against the floor as its heavy fibers restored themselves back to their original shape. She rolled aside, dropping into a small aperture in a hall wall. She occupied a wide space, a thick marble floor which had been untouched by the mud of the rooms. The pews were rotting, admittedly, but there was the remains of an old crucifix was still hanging from the ceiling before large stain glass windows looking out onto the rock wall beyond. It was disturbingly upside down…

She didn't let that bother her, its symbolism wasn't important. She could feel the blood soaked floor beneath her feet, the crimson stains permanently washed into the scorched walls and floor. This was no time to be melancholy among such death and awful memories. The woman extracted two large gauntlets from a pack on her back and sunk down on her haunches.

_Is it time...?_

Voices hissed through her mind as she inspected the gauntlets. They were thick silver gloves which ran up to the elbow and were covered with running lines which covered its entire surface before merging above the back of the hand where the metal formed a upside down disc shape. Here, runes where inscribed into the metal and a single fragment of Mecca had been sealed inside the metal hub. She turned it over. The underside was mainly made up of a cylindrical piece of metal. It had many serrated edges facing outwards, perfectly clean and glinting in the dim light. A thick wire ran from the top of the cylinder and ran up between the index finger and into the saucer 'head' of the gauntlet. Shia'ra patted her bare hands, the tattoos seeming to flare as the sibilant voices continued.

_'The night is so young and we must feast in that darkness...'_

"Almost…" Shia'ra murmured "…almost time. Their souls will be damned"

Her mind was filled with the warped laughs of creatures which made her very skin crawl. A red fleck flowed from the corner of her eye and paused below the pupil.

_'I see...'_

"Patience" she slid her arms into the two gauntlets, arcing her fingers and clenching her hands into fists to make the metal grind together. Once in place she tapped the two saucers against the wall and the floor, the cylinder rolling into place and the serrated edges cutting into her flesh. Blood flowed from the cylinder following the lines carved into the gauntlets as Shia'ra caught herself on a wall. She whimpered, as in a spray of vile red fluid, a small spot scattered out onto the stone. A thin wire like tentacle erupted from the puddle, a single crimson eye glaring at her from its head as a mouth tore open and teeth began to sprout from its gums.

_'Let them weep for we have come...'_

Wrathwell pulled the large flare gun from a pocket of his trench coat and raised it into the air. With a clunk the flare erupted from the end, its light roaring through the dark. The members of the glorious Third Reich far below were all too aware of the flare and as bullets peppered the cliff top, Wrathwell pulled his sword from the ground and was gone with flutter of brown cloth.

* * *

"Prepare the perimeter defenses. Ve vill not give thiz position easily…" Cranko pulled his mistress from the floor "…Oberst? Are you alright?"

"Ya…Ya" she murmured, looking up at the long fuse flare which was slowly dropping onto the ruins below "…who are zey?"

"Ve don't know Mein Oberst. Ve spotted a flight craft approaching these waters zometime ago, a British Bomber."

"A zmall squad zen…" she pulled the officers hat back onto her head "…ve vill crush them as ve did in Dunkirk. Zis is hardly a worthy challenge. Move squads to defensive positions, block the hallvays to the entrance and defend the generator and portal with your lives. Ve must no vail.!!"

The clatter of hobnailed boots echoed down the corridor as the soldiers hurried to their positions. Machine gunners readied their weapons in position from behind sandbags as snipers pulled themselves into position above the mud covered floor. The guttural calls of German soldiers echoing through the halls had Renfield's ears pricking up as ahead, the wide sweeping stair case rising to the high arch where soldiers clustered behind sandbags, waiting. Search lights burst into life, the glimmering fingers running over the scorched earth. Lyra yelped and dropped down as one flickered over her position.

"Why the hell did he have to fire that flare!!"

"Don't matter…." Harker murmured, raising her head over the low parapet "…its not going to help them."

The search lights blew out with horrible crunch as the generators failed. The ruins dropped into darkness, men yelling in the confusion. The Oberst swore, squinting into the darkness as her vampire eyes cast through the shadows. Her body guards were sprinting through the halls, ammo cartridges snapping into place.

Cranko ducked down beside her. "The generators have vailed Oberst, ze vampires are pulling into pozitions. Ve are valling back."

"Nein!! Hold ze gates and vait"

"Ya….mein Oberst"

His head exploded in a gruesome shower. Shocked and covered with his blood, the Oberst gasped, face visibly paling. There, over the breeze someone was singing…

* * *

Hitler has only got one ball.  
The other…..is in the Albert hall  
His mother…..the dirty bugger......Cut it off when he was small.

* * *

Another exploded in a shower of blood, his helmet tumbling from the hole where his head had been.

"That's impossible, I only heard one shot!!..." the Oberst was tumbling back as the voice rose in volume. "....Zhey insult mein Furher!! Do not let zem live!!!"

Behind the wall, Renfield snorted "….Ode to Colonel Bogey, I believe"

* * *

She threw it….into the apple tree  
The wind blew it…  
…into the deep blue sea.  
The fishes got out their dishes  
and had scallops and bollocks for tea!!

* * *

The bullet imbedded itself in a generator in the Northern halls and exploded, sending fiery fragments over the sheltering squad of soldiers. Grey fabric shifted as through the firestorm, one of the Oberst's Vampires rose from the maelstrom.

"Vhy do you cower…!!" he was snarling over the roaring flames as the soldiers pulled themselves from the floor, their clothes steaming as the heat burned away any moisture. "…the night has only truly begun!!"

He paused, turning as something shifted through the dark. Lit by the flames, a single robed figure passed through the flames. Her face was in darkness, dark cloth billowing in the heat. Her arms were outstretched as if crucified, hands gripped round what appeared to be ribbons which disappeared into the smoke on either side of the corridor. The tail end of the ribbons trailed along the floor, their ends brushing along the rubble.

He allowed the scarf to fall from his face as he bared his teeth, his machine gun rising into position. "What can I do for you, Mein little Frauline?"

She didn't respond, didn't stood as her armored greaves shimmered in the blaze. He snarled, pulling the trigger, the rifle emptying its shells onto the mud covered floor. Almost immediately after each shot, thin string like growths ribbons darted from the smoke catching the bullets in mid air and tossed them away as if they were nothing at all.

"Vhat…!?

"Tonight…" the murmur of voices screamed through his cranium as all vampiric thoughts were replaced by fear, the machine gun falling to his side "…you die in hell"

The smoke cleared and the vast worm she held in place by those trailing ribbons roared, its huge teeth baring as it descended. The vampire felt wind whistle by the back of his head, the squad screaming as they were torn apart by the two worms, tearing through flesh and bone. In closer inspection, the worms about 50 inches across were made up of hundreds of fibrous roots, each pulsing like a heartbeat. Each was an ever changing conduit back to her, the ribbons were in fact the same fibourous material which made up the worms and erupted from the two silver gauntlets. She was still moving, still controlling the worms as she moved. They retracted, retreating back into her hands as if called.

He was up, yelling as the remains of his squad splattered across the walls, the remains of their uniforms now blood soaked rags. His leg caught a wall as he leapt the burning rubble. It was all so easy, even with the vampiric speed, the only possible way she could attack him was with the worms and they were gone, leaving her alone and still moving in the hall. All reason had gone, the men had been his friends, his soldiers and any regret he had left had long since fled as she'd torn them apart.

"Die Bitch!!!"

Shia'ra didn't even blink, gesturing with one armored hand at the trooper. He died very quickly and messily as the lance of crimson liquid impaled him. He shrieked, the blood draining from his corpse and running down the length of the blade which emerged horribly from the woman's shoulder, ripping through the niqad and slicing through the vampires heart with ease.

Chearubael, the blood daemon, the parasite, snickered in her head as her eyes were filled with blood lust, the crimson mist rising in her eyes.

His corpse disintegrated in a shower of dust as the blade retracted, dropping his uniform into the dust.

* * *

Hitler has only got one ball,  
Goering, has 2 but they are small  
Himmler has something simmler,  
And Jodl is too close to call...

* * *

Harker was a lithe shape amongst the darkness as she sprinted up the chasm which split them from the cathedral. She was hard to follow as Lyra dropped from the column, pulling the pistol from her holster.

"Renfield? Are you ready…"

Renfield snarled, the massive wolf standing where he'd been had its heavily muscled arms rested on top of the low wall. His grey fur was bristling with near pure rage as in the light of the full moon, wolves called. His now golden eyes were narrowed as if gauging the situation, the loose leather plates which were designed to retain their shape even in his wolf form, still clung to his body as the cloak fell away. Lyra was screaming, staggering away from the monster that had replaced her squad mate.

"A….a…a..A…a…..w…werewolf….!!!!"

"The proper pronunciation is Wyrewolf…." He growled, voice sounding disjointed through the large front canines "…do not compare me to that Nazi bastard"

With a disgruntled snort, he was gone too, in long loping bounds, heading toward the cathedral at a fast pace.

Lyra felt the blood drain from her face, her body as the pistol dropped from nerveless hands. The woman felt all hope fall from her as she slumped down onto her knees, her head in her hands as she began to whimper. All that waited at the cathedral was madness…

* * *

Rommel, has 4 or 5, I guess,  
No one's quite sure 'bout Rudolf Hess.  
Schmelling..is always yelling,  
But Mister Goe-balls has no balls at al

* * *

Please review, i can't get better without some feed back.

Tharagon


	6. The Erlkonnig

"Three Hundred years ago, they would have feared us and burned us at the stake. Now, we're your saviours and your protectors. Its funny how it all turns out isn't it"

One Knight Templar after the Unrecorded War (Midsummer's Day,1975) where the Templar Knights routed nearly two thousand Knights of Malta and mixed Vatican militants and sent Iscariot back to Rome with its tail between its legs.

* * *

We are the Heretics, the Lost and the Last defenders of Humanity and all its vessels.

* * *

The wyrewolf was through the lines of men, sending most flying like rag dolls as it passed among them. Rounds were blazing by, the vast form of Alfred Renfield, darting aside, his shape blurring as if he faded directly out of reality for a second. The fangs remained however, tearing through the soldiers, his hardened claws slicing through the massed ranks. He reared up, a machine gunner's head seized in his jaws and howled, the sound muffled by the screaming, blood and drool covered soldier clenched in his jaws.

He crushed the man's skull with ease and sent the body scattering across the slabs.

Harker followed, her progress out stripped by the loping pace of the wolf. She was on the survivors like some vulture, her knives cutting through flesh and bone as she passed among them. Her mask was covered with the gore of her kills as she swirled aside; catching one soldier off guard as he jumped from a side passage, gun ready. Her knife slid through the stock of the rifle, splitting the metal and wood before imbedding it in his chest. She held him like one would hold a lover, her body pressed against his as he gargled and cough, blood flowing clearly from his mouth. Her knife sliding through his ribs as she pulled off him, the knife coming loose and spraying bloody ichor across the floor.

She cackled, leaping onto another, his throat shredding as she passed by, cutting apart four men like a knife through paper, the blood of her passage dripping from her knives and her body, the metal gauntlets dripping with the vile substance. She flayed another, the thin stiletto blade running along her spine ripping free of its scabbard and imbedding itself in the chest of another. She slammed her body into his, her hands reaching for the knife as blood bubbled onto skull shaped hilt; the skeletal jaws wedged open by the large blade.

"The Erkonnig has come to steal your soul, weak Mortal!!" the angels and daemons carved onto the surface of her mask beheld his terrified face and he tried to grasp at the leather and metal which made up her armour; some desperate attempt to stave off death maybe?

She tore it out of him, letting the body fall away with a kick of a booted heel. She was up, a knife thrown and imbedding itself into a charging soldier, the bayonet he was carrying falling from his nerveless hands as she past him by, the knife wrenched from his chest in a shower of crimson liquid.

"Are you weaklings the Third Reich!! You're a disgrace…!!" she was like daemon rising from hell, her blades like some vast storm passing around her as men fell, their hides torn apart by silvery death. The air was filled with cries of pain and whimpers of fear as more ran, their rifles discarded as they fled from the terror which marched up the halls after them. "…you don't even deserve the quick death my blades promise. You don't even deserve to soil the floor with the mud and shit of your passage!!"

She killed another, his headless corpse slumping to the floor where he'd tried to struggle up.

"Disgusting…intolerable. They wake me up for this…"

A soldier rose from a side passage of the blood stained hall, the bayonet on his rifle cutting through her leather shoulder cover and impacted, the blade tearing through her shoulder and out the back. No blood erupted from the wound, the mask turning to give the blade a quick glance.

"Is that truly it? Is that all you can truly manage…?" He gasped and sputtered, trying to pull the blade clear "…pathetic, all of you pathetic"

She tore his throat out with ease, her other had reaching for the bayonet. She snapped it in two, sending the body tumbling away, the look of fear and surprise written across the soldier's face. With a degree of malice she wrenched the blade free.

"It takes a man to kill a monster…" she snarled, the flesh re-knitting in the hole in her armour. Muscle became one, dragging the skin with it along with the silver tendrils of nerves. It became a signal ebony whole, the assassin flexing her shoulder "…what are you? A man or a dog?"

The steady noise of bootfalls echoed through the blood stained corridor. Ahead, a large split occurred in the corridor, another trap to misguide foes away from the larger central chambers. Renfield had gone left, the carnage he'd left behind very visible. From the right, the purple glow of ghoul eyes were all too visible as the Nazi's undead workforce revealed itself.

Harker laughed. It was a vile sound, oozing with such a degree of evil malice that the stones around them seemed a little darker, a little deeper in shadow.

"Dogs…."

* * *

They were all dead, their wrecked corpses scattered across the ground. Each bore the look of fear and surprise written across their features, their uniforms tore, limbs ruptured and their blood spread across all four walls of the small courtyard. For the single survivor it was utter, pure terror, his pistol shaking in his hands as he faced the main entrance to the courtyard, a large arch in the southern wall. Beyond that dread portal, darkness seethed as something moved in the black.

A flash of light amongst the black looked almost like a lighter of some kind, a single glowing point present after the small halo of light had faded away. Boots crunched on the gravel as through the arch, the cloaked form of Marian Westenra rose into view, a cigarette stuck between two thinly drawn lips. Behind the twin bang like fronds of peroxide white hair, her brown eyes were fixed constantly on the single German soldier who stood, his pistol ready though shaking with fear near the smaller exit from the courtyard.

Strung across her back, the rifle was an ornate affair, the looping script carved upon its few flat surfaces. The scope had rose buds carved onto its silvery metal surface while the heavy long barrel was covered with carved thorns. From the silvery metal stock to the long barrel and snub like muzzle on the end, the rifle was truly a piece of art. As she approached, the soldier could also see carved among the rose thorns and buds, the word 'Samiel' written in a long looping script.

He fainted out of sheer exhaustion and fear, soiling himself as he slid down the wall at his back. Marian didn't even pause, glancing quickly at the fallen soldier.

"Hmmm, that's strange. I missed one…" she murmured "…bugger…" She was gone into the arch, the cigarette trailing smoke as she walked on. "…am I really that scary?"

She stepped onto a wide space, the floor covered with large square slabs of rock. This was lit by the vile green moon outside, the empty stone windows casting fearsome shadows along her path. Absurdly, she hopped with one foot onto the first square and skipped the length of the hall like a child playing hopscotch.

The squad perched the end of the hall looked up as she reached the bottom of the narrow stairs leading up from the far end of the long thin hall. They began to file slowly down the stairs as she reached the bottom.

"Ring a Ring a Roses…" The rifle was unslung incredibly quickly the thick muzzle rising up as light reflected off the silver cladding "…A pocket full of posies…" A shot roared through the empty halls, leaving a resounding echo as the spent round erupted from the breach, the metal cartridge ringing off the stone floor. "…attishoo…attishoo…." The men stopped dead, mid-step as their gore splattered across the walls, their wrecked bodies collapsing, each perforated by a single bullet. "…you all fall down." Her mocking words cut through the heady silence as she hefted the rifle and mounted the stairs, taking great care not to step in any of the blood as she passed.

The cigarette was torn from her lips as she reached the top of the stairs, the sniper on the nearby wall aiming for the single burning dot of the woman's cigarette. Marian glared balefully at the severed end, the tobacco spiralling away. She spat the remains from her mouth, the fronds of its black insides dispersing in the wind.

The noise was filled with the sound of someone struggling with a bolt on a rifle, the sniper rifle failing to load the bullet into the breach as the rifle jammed. Her face split into an intense and ghoulish grin, the rising wind causing her brown eyes to come into view as the peroxide dyed bangs blew aside.

* * *

The ghouls were way too easy to kill, the sword cutting through their dead flesh like a hot knife through butter. She wheeled around, the Erlkonnig raising in a bloody arc behind as her heavily ornamented pony tail tie off flayed another ghoul. It rolled away howling…

"Highly tenacious and extremely terrifying, however they are rather slow aren't they…" Several exploded as the sword cut through them. Harker's mask was almost alight with devilish glee as she swirled in all her deadly beauty, taking the knee out from under another before dispatching it on her up turned blade. "….too slow…." Her pony tail whirled around, tearing the throat from another as Harker hunched down, springing from her crouch and passed through another small cluster. "…no matter, you'll all die like dogs."

They collapsed as she cut a path of death through them, her crimson hair flailing behind her head, as the mask took in each kill with the air of an art critic admiring a piece of art. They couldn't fire, they couldn't do anything, she was in amongst them. The silver filament in the knives were very effective against all true undead foes, even the mass produced freaks were unable to escape the Assassin's wrath as she tore them apart, the howl of their passing the only true serenade to the scene of carnage.

There was a flicker of grey cloth behind a nearby pillar which erupted from the wall into the corridor. Vampires, she could recognise the almost clinical smell of the freaks wafting along the corridor along with the telltale odour of dried blood from their almost orgy like feasting.

She allowed the last ghoul to drop, its throat torn out as the blood dribbled freely from her mask. She hissed, bringing the knives across her chest alluringly, her neck craning back as she cracked her neck.

"Come on then…tell me. Are you dogs or are you men…?"

With a roar and a scream, a missile caught her in the chest and exploded, spreading her body parts and armour across the corridor. The two knives skittered away as the Erlkonnig met the floor with a resounding clang, the eye holes of the skull gazing eerily at the twenty or so vampires sprinting through the corridor.

They moved carefully, rifles ready and machine guns prepped as they passed through, avoiding the large puddle of blood which dribbled through the cracks in the floor. Their flashlights played over the walls, the many points of light flicking along the blood stained walls and the crimson dust of the dead ghouls.

The clatter of their hobnailed boots in the corridor was the only noise apart from the drip of blood.

A muffled clank made one trooper nearly drop his gun, the flashlight panning across the left hand wall. There, leaning against the stones of the wall was the large metal mask.

There was a sibilant hiss in the air, the dark shifting as something moved in the black behind them.

"Dogsssss, all of you dogsssss. Your Masssssterssss bid you freedom but you are all dogsssssss…" something cackled, the quiet murmurs continuing as the flash lights began to flicker. To the Captain of the squad, the dark was filled with murmurs and mutterings. Even throughout the painful progress to be a vampire, the mass slaughter, they were the most horrific cluster of words he'd ever heard.

"…. Permission Granted and Accepted. Darwin Restrictions released for single User. Full Blood Rights Omega, Alpha, Beta and Gamma released……..The Darwin Enigma is now in effect. Restrictions will remain in effect until Target is permanently silenced and their souls devoured. Quail for the hell you have released."

Darkness came, bringing with it a million blades.

* * *

Renfield hared through the graves as above the full moon glared down as the clouds began to gather. They were wheeling over the centre of the cathedral where a dark orb of storm cloud was glaring balefully down on the abbey directly below.

He snarled, this was taking far much time as his massive fore paw engulfed another German soldier's head and crushed it. Muscled flowed, pulling the wyrewolf further down into a wolfish pose, all four feet thrumming along the dark earth as arches, destroyed walls, dread stone portals and panicking German troopers passed by, their flight now ignored by the vast grey wolf. They were of little importance, time was of the essence and seeing the height of the moon, midnight was fast approaching. Why they hadn't started the portal sooner was anyone's guess, Renfield, through all the wolfish instinct and pack mentality could feel the slightly human thoughts bubbling to the surface.

He snapped at a lone soldier's heels, his heavily muscled jaws threatening to sever his calves from the bone, this simply would not do! Did this really feel like it was going to be a big trap? Or something else. This was an incredibly well stocked garrison with such a large amount of soldiers to be a black ops mission. It seemed a little over the top to be a non-noticeable project. Had they put all their eggs in one basket?

He reared up, the form becoming like mist as he shredded a fleeing group of soldiers. The golden eyes reformed, the blood flecked muzzle of Renfield's bipedal form as his jaws caught another soldier, tearing him in half and scattering his entrails across the floor.

The night was forever watching…

* * *

She was losing control. Each minute, more terrified men were passing through the main arch into the chamber, their uniforms wrecked and bloody as some discarded weapons to flee. She shot one, his body tumbling away into the mud beneath the Box.

"You dare desert!! Covards!! Return to the fray at vonce"

"Nein Obesrt. We've stared into the jaws of hell and wish never to return to this cursed site…" One of the soldier's spoke up, his helmet gone, his hair dishevelled as the rifle rattled in his hands as they shook uncontrollably. She shot him between the eyes, her pistol recoiling with the shot.

"You vill fight if I vish it or become ghouls like the others. Snivelling cowards!!"

He pitched back into the blood soaked dirt. There was so much blood on the floor and the walls……and it was moving. Vast streams of the crimson liquid were running across the floor. And all heading in the same direction too, the portal. Where the streams met the box, the blood boiled as if alive, the Box drawing each red strand. The Box itself was glowing with a rather unnerving shade of green.

Beyond the dread portal, something began to laugh with such evil intent that the Obesrt felt her thrice cursed soul tremble.

* * *

On the hill of scorched earth many hundred miles south of the ghastly cathedral, the moon glared down on the bare ground as among the graves, foul things shifted and moved. All was still in the German grave yard, the candles beside the many graves wavering with each draft as the man carnations which littered the worn graves shifted in the moonlight. The foxes who called this place home were still for once, the dead left to rest eternally in their rotten beds. Ivy curled around the oldest of stones, where stone soldiers raised their arms to the sky as if saluting some invisible leader, forgotten to all be them. Beside the paths, the large crypts did not stir, even with the boy's presence as he passed among the graves, the blood stained waistcoat and striped trousers seeming a little out of place among the graves. His deathly appearance however, wasn't.

Red rags alighted on the mound, flowing dark energy. White gloves came first as flesh re-knitted, the red sleeves becoming one as the vast shape of the Vampyre Alucard pulled itself back into being.

And he began to laugh, the dark air rolling with the awful sound. The clouds were scudding north, their passage forever watched by the eerie moon.

"So, the Gods come forth and reveal their true meaning…" he snarled, the pale flesh tilting back in mirth as the large silver combat pistol was pulled forth "…so be it, prepare to revel in the slaughter"

* * *

Trivia

There are in existence, two types of Templar Knights;

Firstly, the main militant arm of the Templar knights is squads of normal humans. These squads rely heavily on their equipment and past experience to be of use. Like Holmwood who uses his equipment and his major skills in engineering and mathematics to get around the problems. He is a technical wizard figuratively. These serve as rank and file soldiers making up a small minority of Templar Squads, a rare group of individuals deemed skilled enough to be classed as a comrade. These Knights however still make up the lower ranks used to control armoured units as well as serving as pilots, drivers, servants and cleaners.

Secondly, the major weapon against evil is evil itself or its counterpart, Black magic. Individuals with certain skills which are unable to be explained, talents that bend reality itself have been collected from around the world by Lord Winslow and put to use in service to the Government. It can be anything from Parasitic Blood Daemons to Wyrewolfs to metamancers to Pyromancers, wizards, witches, warlocks, nightghasts, telekinetics, physics, immortals, Wychkin, Cabalists, Scrimualins, Regenerators and a variety of others. There are no vampires however; the occupants of the Templar Bastion are all very much alive.

In a sense….

Note: For Dental Floss, see Walter.


	7. Of all the Fey

_This was more the truth. Before the Brothers Grimm, the fabled worlds were dark, the magic Kingdoms had always been rumoured to spill freely into the world of men and the Fey, old legends poured through into reality from their Kingdoms to wreak havoc throughout the human world. The Fey unlike their portrayals were all in some senses of the word 'Evil'. From the beginning of time, Man had found itself set upon on old sides by monsters as beings terrible to behold burst through the forests of the world and the mountains and the wildernesses of the world and waged war._

**Foreword taken from the Brothers Grimm Fairy-tale Almanac**

* * *

**Of All the Fey.....**

* * *

Renfield rose through the masses, his jaws snapping at the soldiers as thy sprinted across the main chamber. His arms were unapparent, a furred mist ripping the slower soldiers to shreds as hundreds of wolves heads erupted from their ends, consuming all that rose to attack him. He was through final line of sand bags before they had chance to resist, his eyes full of balefire. Hundreds of years of Wyrewolf ancestry boiled through his veins as the Noble Wolf were a fanged whirlwind, shredding the battered battalion.

Marian was a blur, her thin figure twisting from column to column, 'Samiel' beginning to glow with the strain it was under, its barrel steaming.

"Why the Hell are we dealing with this cannon fodder!!..." she was snarling, her fingers white on the trigger as she evisarated a small squad of soldiers. A machine gun sent her scurrying for cover as it kicked rock dust from the pillars. Above the racket, her high voice could be easily heard swearing.

"Wankers…..!!!"

Renfield banked, his claws catching the mud as his form surged, a wall of ethereal fur and muscle smashing through the soldiers. A massive fist rose from the white furred wall and sent broken bodies scattering across the mud.

High above the bloodshed, the clouds wheeled and the dark which surrounded the basin began to move, hundreds of shadows, not one with the night began to fall down into the bowl, filling the dark spaces in corridors and rolling through the blood filled passages and arches.

* * *

In the forest of her mind, German soldiers hung from trees, their beings torn asunder by ghostly blades. Each branch dripped with the blood of the undead soldiers as the pitch black sky above was filled with the moon's green glow.

Ethereal rags moved through the trees as armoured feet brushed the pine needles, never leaving a mark of their passage. A slim hand, its dark skin near pitch black in the moon's glow seemed to sink as it rested upon the just as pitch black bark of a tree, the branches thickly interwoven. Harker, the once great Erlkonnig raised her head to the sky watched the clouds stealing across her sky, her moon.

"So the old Murmurs are trying to return"

* * *

The portal opened with more then a whisper and tore the world apart. From the deepest reaches of the earth and the darkest depths of the Rock, the world heard a single tone as one Kingdom pulled itself back into existence. The call of a lost creatures sent dogs howling, cats running for cover and the more astute humans to reach for their foreheads as migraines appeared suddenly, turning some almost blind as their third eye struggled to behold the energy released.

Rock split, earth tore and sky was shredded with the wisps of cloud which would usually occupy the coldest of Witching Hours. The arches came away from the walls as eldritch lightning rebounded off the walls scything through the German ranks. Renfield rolled aside, howling as the stench of burning fur caught in most of the human throats in the chamber. The clouds were pouring down, a vast needle of water vapour and green lightning reached to touch the box as the portal burst asunder. Vast fissures broke through the floor as the hundreds of souls slaughtered during the Templars' assault exploded over the Box.

Bloody corpses, their faces melting and skin running fell to the floor in fleshy heaps as Templars and foe alike, rolled into cover. Blood met lightning as the cabalist, Shia'ra burst from the arch corridor, her hands flowing with the living liquid as it formed a large seething gauntlet, seizing the stray bolt before it had time to impact. Burnt meat, Marian wrinkled her nose as Shia'ra's striking figure broke through the energy and sprinted for cover as the ground erupted into shards. The lighting was very much alive and very much aware of what it was doing. It seemed almost animalistic, each attack was unplanned, chaotic, aiming to kill any thing that stood in its way or at least kick a lot of dust to obscure its passing.

There was something waiting just beyond the lights of the portal. An ethereal shape flitted and twisted within the gyroscope's interior. The metal held it, for now. Shards were peeling from the metal casing as the thing struggled, the lighting growing even more intense as it shredded the surrounding walls. It was a dancing, unfocused thing. Huge, transparent tentacles made up of some green mist were playing over the walls while the centre of thing would have made the aurora look like the lights at a fun fair. Oval shaped, they flickered and twirled in beautiful patterns, fingers of energy erupting from the softly moving light flow.

It made little sense; the thing dragged through had little mass. There was not a particular body to speak of, just a hub of lights surrounding the portal. It would have been mesmerising to watch if Renfield hadn't seen worse; the old wolf had wandered many a dark path till this point. The illusion the thing was creating was good, he'd give it that, but there was no beauty to this light display, just chaos and anger. This room was particularly surging with it. There was a real sense of abandonment from the creature within the lights, the lost becoming feral perhaps.

There was a clatter of hobnailed boots and flicker of brown cloth.

"Knight Captain!!" Renfield shifted his form, pulling his human being back into shape "…nice to see you finally join us"

"I don't deal with such trash, just waiting till things get hairy, no pun intended…" Wrathwell leaned round the pillar Renfield had hidden behind and took a quick glance. He was back in an instant as a tendril smashed through the space where his head had been.

"Non taken, Sir"

"What have we got?"

Renfield took a quick glance.

"Looks like a Wendago…."

"Naah, Whil'o Wisp, and a big one too. Either that, or Saint Elmo's been evolving, but I think it's the latter. Its been hanging around the boundaries in this area for some time. That bugger seems to be attracted to this point. Must be some big Bad mojo linked to this place." He looked away, a hand reaching into a deep inside pocket of his coat.

Renfield snorted brushing aside his coarse grey hair with a gnarled hand.

"Those things were supposed to hang around marshes. They lured travellers to their deaths using trickery and illusion. Just read the Norfolk reports, they do not grow to a great size. This seems to…..volatile"

"Just look at it…." Wrathwell fished a bunch of leather straps from his pocket, each with a small silver disk attached to its end. In closer inspection each disk was stamped with a religious symbol, a crucifix on one, an eight spoked wheel on the other, a miniscule picture of Shiva on another. They caught the light, the silver which they were made from was the purest Macedonian silver, their surfaces laid with small fronds of mistletoe. "…it's more then one. A mesh of awareness in one solid mass. Why do you think it's so chaotic, it's basically fighting itself for control and not quite managing. And also, blood rituals are far too unstable to be of any use. You want smoke and candles, fine. If you want to seal it in one place fine. If you want to hold something here, no way would you use a blood ritual"

"But what about the rumours and reports of this place been the first vampire's birth place"

"Compared to that, Vampires are Children. The old Gods cannot be choosy about where they can come through. It probably was an accident that this was such a dark place to appear. Its previous history must of made it a weak spot for the 'other' realms, a place where reality is…" he paused, tapping a well shaven chin with a armoured finger "…rather then straight lines, is more of an 'L' shape. Gods are fallible after all. Just myths and rumours, which for once……were wrong."

Renfield felt that that description may have lost its way back in the depths of the Captain's mind. Maybe his mind had gone the same way reality had in this spot, perhaps everyone like him thought in 'Ls'. Perhaps even himself, Renfield mused.

The Wisps shrieked, their many voices joined as one as the ethereal shapes within the gyroscope flung themselves against the still spinning cage like device.

"Blood rituals, so by the book, so clichéd. I mean…." Wrathwell pulled a string of rosary beads from the same pocket and wrapped the long mass round his left arm. "…it just screams 'Vampire' and 'Dark Satanic Ritual' and these aren't daemons we're dealing with." There was thud and stuttering gasp. "…speaking of vampires however"

The uniform was crumpled, the cap missing and the blond tresses out of place. The Obesrt was a mess, her face covered with blood and grime as she fell into cover behind a large stone pillar. She turned; spotting the two enemy soldiers crouched behind the next pillar along.

"What a mess you've made…." Wrathwell pulled a clump of leather from the bunch and checked the silver disks. The Obesrt shrank back whimpering as the Wisp screamed, the stones reverberating with each call. "…seems your Commanders were expecting something a little larger. Maybe something more war winning I guess"

"You're all Monsters!!!" She was up, screaming as her hair stood on end, hackles rising in her neck.

"Oi!! Look at you calling the Kettle black, that was a racist remark!! Non humans have the same rights as the mortals I thank you."

They all ducked down in unison as a thrown pillar smashed into their position. The shelter held, barely, the dust covering their crouched figures in a fine white layer. Wrathwell coughed through the cloying dust as Renfield started forward, a thickly muscled arm encircling the Oberst's head. She shrieked, her voice muffled by the coarse hair sprouting from the arm. Renfield leant forward, the amount of menace held within each syllable extremely easy to hear.

"Move or scream and I will crush your skull. Understand?"

"Tact Private….exercise it a little more. We're not the war office…" Wrathwell muttered warningly, checking a small bound volume as the Wyrewolf tightened his grip, Stimmelheimer's eyes bulging slightly. "…though she is of no importance."

"Sir…" he didn't release his grip as Wrathwell turned away, stowing the book away "…if that's so then why don't we kill her now?"

"Because it's not necessary, we've got our job, it's up to Hellsing to kill the Vampires. We're here for that Wisp through there. I don't make a business of killing people."

"Yes Knight Captain!"

Wrathwell gripped the bundle in a metal clad hand and darted across the gap toward the next pillar. The Wisp rumbled casting another massive bolt of energy toward the sprinting man. The wall split, masonry dust billowing up as the soldier dropped behind another pillar, obscuring the view of the creature.

He held the leather bands up to the light and inspected the disks. Affected by the magical taint in the air cast by the last lighting bolt, the disks all bore the marks of attack. Except one, the picture of Shiva glowed blue, the metal covered with its bright light picking out each flat metal surface.

"We've got a Hindu Allergen…" Wrathwell thumbed the rosary beads, their red coatings steaming as many tiny runes covered each bead glowed after the nearly fatal assault. "…Second Class effect too. Hoi!! Renfield!! What do you call a group of Wisps!!?"

"Dunno….a Commune perhaps"

"That'll do…"

He reached around behind him, gripping the haft of a massive revolver holstered on the base of his back. It was a plain revolver, the thick barrel was bare of any runes and the black lacquered wood on the stock wasn't carved or bore any marks. What made it stand out from most pistols was its size. The barrel was capable of firing shells an inch thick, the bullets tearing through most organic targets, leaving holes around the size of dinner plates even in the most heavily armoured targets. It was adapted to allow the firing of either silver shells, Macedonian Silver as standard or iron rounds, for dealing with any Fey opponents. It was too much gun for one human to handle however, Wrathwell's face falling into shadow as a particularly evil grin cut across his features, he wasn't 'normal'.

He snapped the massive ammo wheel from its slot and extracted several silver shells, dropping them into an ammo pouch attached to his belt and slid several yellow headed bullets into the 3 empty breaches. He clicked it back into place and spun the ammo wheel, pulling the safety catch into place and leant back against the wall.

On a simple red cord hanging from the grip, a single vial of liquid contained a single human bone, a little finger fragment suspended in holy water caught the light breeze as Wrathwell allowed the sound of birdsong and running rivers to fill his mind. 'Just think, calm happy thoughts and then it'll be all over…..again'

* * *

Marian hit the ground running, her form nearly pressed against the ground as she sprinted along the hard floor. She rolled into the shade of a rotting pew, several fragments of wood coming loose against her behind as she fell back. Samiel rose up, the barrel questing very much like a wild animal searching for prey as the sniper pulled herself into a firing position.

Her position was swotted by a green tendril before she had chance to fire, sending the woman skidding backward across the floor. She was up on her feet as another slashed across the space, the shockwave blowing her aside as it narrowly missed her.

"Aww Feck!!!"

Power welled up as she blew herself a clear path through the ruined pews, igniting several generators with a wave of her hand. Holmwood rose up as she leapt the low wall into the ex-scientists' enclosure. Dead bodies met her jack boots, each with a neat bullet wound to the back of the head where the Reality Engineer's pistol had impacted.

Holmwood pulled his flat cap tighter down over his floppy blond hair and straightened his glasses, his high collared armour steaming as it vented the heat created by time shift. His arms were full of papers, a discarded note book filled with his unreadable short hand on the floor nearby. Several of the captured documents bore the marks of his work, the Nazi symbols scribbled out in disgust as the, to the core, east end lad went about his information gathering.

"It appears the creator of this project was way out in his or her calculations. They pushed an old Kingdom relic in the hope it would create individuals like the Impaler, however they instead pulled a useless thing though, a monster true but useless all the same. From what I can tell, the darkness conjured by this thing is actually more a light show, its occupying the portal completely but not allowing anything else through."

"Fine…." Marian peered over the low stone wall, ducking back as the Wisp howled "…but how the hell do you kill that thing."

"Physical attacks won't work. Its basically sentient marsh gas, eldritch…"

Marian stirred, nonplussed as her mouth moved. "What? Oblong?"

Holmwood nearly leathered himself in the forehead at that comment "…and malice. Magic will have limited effect, but using equipment we usually use while dealing with the Fey is our best bet."

She fell back, exchanging a glance with him as she snapped a red marked ammo cartridge into 'Samiel's breach as she and the engineer spoke in Unison;

"Harker"

* * *

I think its worth going into a little detail at this point.

* * *

The dark past of the human race was marked by many old fables as old men create stories to scare the young and warn the old with cautionary tales. There, Elves, fairies and Imps frolicked through sunlight dappled glades and small forest streams without little care in the world. When the Brothers Grimm wrote their fairy tales, the more darker, more macabre view of such fables began to show through as the forests became a little malignant, foreboding perhaps as the once 'Happy' little fairy tale creatures became a little more dangerous and 'Evil'.

(Which is true seeing as Fairies; spelt Faeries actually had fangs and produced a mild toxin which was harmless to other Fey but an aphrodisiac to humans)

* * *

A blade's silvery surface caught the light as it glided from the scabbard. The trees bore witness as metal flowed, the black dented armour been pulled back into shape. An iron Mask dropped into place as red hair reformed, Harker tossing her head to send the long pony tail over her shoulder, curling its end round her neck. Fingers became one, their thin joints nearly perfect as the ebony skin covered the joints perfectly. The soft curve of her spine was quickly covered with the thick, tight leather of her suit, as her very armour, part of some illusion was pulled back into reality.

She stood poised, her head tilting to one side as if curious before a quiet laugh echoed down the dark corridors.

* * *

Wrathwell exploded from cover, his pistol discharging a massive round from the thick muzzle. The Wisp surged, throwing everything at the speeding bullet, the thick shell slowing as it reached the target, the blast of energy nearly sending it spinning off. It crumpled in mid air, the head smashing and scattering brown water scattering across the fabric of the Wisp. It boiled away as the Ganges river water sprinkled over its many facets, large holes opening where each drop of water landed. Shrieking, a tendril sent the man flailing back over several pews. Smashing into the dirt, his feet left twin trenches along the mud covered floor as he slammed into the last set of intact pews in a cloud of wet splinters.

Hel swore, struggling to extract himself from the rotten wood, his brown officer's coat torn as the Wisp rolled and boiled, struggling to heal the holes the bullet had torn in the fabric of its being. He took a quick glance to one side, noting the cowled figure seated on a fallen a pillar not far from his position. Strangely, mid the destruction and dead bodies lain across the floor, the figure seemed truly at peace. After all, it was peeling an orange. Wrathwell snarled and pulled himself loose with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Not Now!!" the figure didn't even look up, skeletal fingers working to remove the thick skin from the fruit. Andrew swore, a mailed hand reaching over his shoulder to grip the hilt of the large claymore. Charm bindings came loose, the papery material pulling itself into the folds of his jacket as the tears and torn cloth became whole. For good measure, he wrapped a single strand round his left arm, his right raising the sword up, his left settling beneath the right to steady the long, bright steel blade.

"Lets see you dance, you freak. Wind up your waste and show me some hell"

A blast threw the Wisp aside as a lithe figure tore along the walls, a thin rifle clenched in balled fists as the bolt was thrown back and Marian pulled a second grenade into the muzzle of her rifle. There was another putt, the first been inaudible under the Wisp's shrieks, the specially made frag grenade spreading iron filings across the room.

Tentacles to, made up of some black ichor, stained with crimson ripped across the room, discouraging the thing from the exits and locked around the northern side of the gyroscope. Shia'ra was there, a slim figure darting amongst the lighting caused by her shield, her left arm encased within a warped crimson sleeve of boiling tendrils as her wrist sprouted tentacles. Blood flowed freely across her eyes as capillaries burst as the daemon pushed its and her limits. The Niqab too was mess of rippling crimson fibres, her very clothes part of the vast intellect of Cheraubael. Through her eyes, the room was red, people picked out through yellow outlines, their forms becoming like blobs of light to the cabalist.

Renfield was stirring in the shadows, his grey fur rippling as the muscles ran down his arms, bulking up his upper body as he face elongated, golden pupils pushing through as he bared his teeth before bursting from the shadows.

Wrathwell was up, yelling as he ducked below one flailing tendril as yet another grenade impacted against the gyroscope. A whip like frond of crimson smashed the ground at his feet, shattering one aspect of the box before sweeping across, cutting several of the thick metal wires as it went. They fell loose, sparking as the whip was pulled back to Shia'ra, her arm rippling as her skin morphed and warped into another new disturbing shape. A vast blade sprouted forth, her skin distending as the 'thing' rose to nearly the length of her torso as another thick ridge of what looked like bone dropped toward the floor with a shorter but just as sharp blade. It widened, quickly, reaching a foot across. Her arm was gone, the muscle instead replaced by red tendrils easily showing the empty air beyond.

She was shrieking as she ran forward, Wrathwell could easily hear the daemon calling behind her voice, telling the Wisp how worthless it was in many tongues. Armour was bubbling across her torso and her legs, the Ni'qab disintegrating as thick; bone like plates took its place. A thick crimson visor dropped into place, several holes punched in its thick surface. Complete, it made her look like some Nightmarish Knight, rearing from the bowels of hell.

This was no time to contemplate that however, Wrathwell blew another hole as 'Aries' roared into life, his thick revolver blowing another hole in its side. Wracked with pain, the wisp tossed a ball of energy in his direction, the soldier rolling out the way as a pillar blew apart. He rose up on his feet again as the Cabalist caught a flailing tendril, her blade/arm cutting a swathe. On the other side, a vast wolf caught the flank of the creature, splitting the thing apart as muscle balled, opening a clear path through to its heart.

Within its rapidly spinning prison, the Wisp's mind was in turmoil as each facet of its being was slowly wiped out. The man, with his mixtures of magic and his those painful bullets had already torn several holes within its being, hitting far deeper then he, or the wisp had expected. The Wyrewolf, its noble spirit was tearing through its 'young' facets easily as if they were the air itself. The Telekinetic sprinting round the wall top throwing the Man made weapons against its vast being. Unlike the Fey, however, the iron filings were doing too little damage, merely distracting the thing and sending its attention skittering away from its true foes.

It vented a vast blast of energy, sending the Templars flying. Wrathwell landed rather ungainly amidst rubble as he passed through a solid wall as Shia'ra followed, her flight slowing as thick boots dug into the flow, bone like protrusions cutting holes in the dirt as she slowed.

Renfield wasn't even truly there, his mist like form dropping back to a safe distance before renewing his attack. Shia'ra raised a hand to the Captain as he pulled himself from the wall, brushing brick dust from his shoulders.

"Are you in need of assistance?" Even behind her due concern, he could still hear the daemon murmuring in her mind as he brushed her aside. She would think nothing of it; already, the thing in her body had its coils wrapped firmly around her brain, her thoughts corrupted, her soul; gone probably. Behind that visor, behind the young face underneath was a weapon, a barely controlled monster.

"Sarge!! You alright down there!!"

"Still with all my limbs…." The cabalist erupted from the hole in the wall, her body sprouting blades as the one massive blade on her left arm was replaced with claws on either arm, each finger tearing apart as the six inch blades pulled themselves through.

"As if that would make any difference…" Marian murmured, snapping the bolt back on her long rifle and taking aim. "…humpty dumpty always puts herself back together"

"Vell, Vell, vell, Vell!!..." the voice was full of sneering arrogance as Marian chanced around "….ze Portal is a suczess. Ze Major vill be mozt Pleased!!" Schrödinger yawned widely, fangs bared, seeming to be completely oblivious to the carnage below. Marian's eyebrow twitched, her eyes narrowing…..its amazing how the human mind can be forced on one major path and be blinkered to the world around it, as Marian's was.

'Ears!!'

"Hemmler was very correct as assured by mine Furher. Ze Glorious Major gives hiz regardz unt warns your Master, that he may not join our glorious Var!"

The sniper's bullet sent the Catboy's ruined remains across the walls. She took a deep breath, ejecting the round from the breach and turned her attention back to the carnage below.

"Ears!!!! What the Hell!!! What in Fricking Hell would you have Ears!!!! And a Tail!!!! Who the hell wrote you into this world you little bastard!!! Oh come on!!!"

* * *

Shia'ra had her claws dug into the gyroscope's sides as she struggled to slow the many spinning metal rings. From behind the visor, her face was full of perspiration and pain as the monster in her mind snickered. The metal came to a shrieking halt as Wrathwell rolled back into view, the claymore raising up to pierce the creature's side.

And stopped as a dark shape dropped down. Harker unfolded from where she had landed, her red hair scattered around her as the iron mask rose up from the dirt. Instantly the Wisp stopped shrieking, its tentacles falling limply as Harker laid a delicate hand on the lights which made up the hub of the creature. She was whispering soothing words to the Wisp as the ghostly body beyond the gyroscope leant forward to allow the ErlKonnig to speak.

It was a language which Wrathwell found it hard to understand, the long syllables were beautiful and flowing as the Wisp rolled in its cradle, the tendrils gathering round the two Fey as if embracing the tall shape of Harker. Old Kingdom script sprang to mind, the old documents sealed in the lowest bastion of the templar stronghold bearing a similar flow of syllables.

"….albereth…." she breathed, her anger gone, the pure blade sheathed as behind the mask, a lone tear ran down the line of her jaw.

Nobility, that was what Wrathwell saw beyond the mask, a sense of honor, maybe what had remained of the Fey. She stood tall as she rested a hand lightly on the glowing surface.

Then it was gone, pulling back into the sphere. The clouds were gone, just the cold night sky glaring down on the wide space. There was just a single glowing mote remaining within the rings, that slowly glimmering out of existence as they watched.

Wrathwell slumped down onto his knees, panting as the last echoes of the wisp disappeared from the now silent, scored walls.

"Its over…." Holmwood rose from the engineer's station, his hat askew and his arms full of parchments "….thank God"

"Yup…." Wrathwell slid the sword back into its scabbard, the charm string pulling back into shape around the blade. "….Private, finish your Data collection. Renfield, clear all survivors…." The wolf nodded and grinned, teeth growing in its mouth "….alive."

"Dam….Yes Sir!!!" the teeth retracted. He slapped his palms together and strode over to the small group of German survivors, his hair bristling.

"Right you 'orrible lot. Look sharp because you're going back to England!! The Guvnor tells me I ain't allowed to kill you but I can still maim you a little" there was a general murmur of consent amongst the German ranks.

"Sergeant Shia'ra, deal with the cleansing of the box"

"Yes Captain"

She turned, the niqab falling back into place as the amour rippled and disappeared. Renfield coughed, pushing the mud covered Obesrt forward.

"….and this one?"

"Take her with the rest, she'll yield no useful information"

"I vill never surrender!!!"

"Exactly, you know nothing I need." The Obesrt paled as he cut through her defiance.

"Give her to Hellsing when the War Office have finished, don't let Shia'ra get to her. That's a death no one deserves"

"Yes Sir, though permission to speak freely?"

"Hmmm"

"Why don't we execute her Sir, after all the life she's taken and the war she's waged against us."

"Because underneath the Uniform, she still has a glimmer of a soul be that Iron Clad and cold, she's not with the same 'Evil' we see everyday. She had no real idea what she was doing here. She's just a soldier wanting to go home….."

Renfield nodded as the Captain turned away. He tugged the silent woman behind her as he muttered quietly….

"Just like us"

Wrathwell raised an arm to the patrolling sniper and signaled her down. She dropped, landing heavily before hobbling painfully over to his position.

"Marian"

"Yes Sir?!"

"Go get captured…."

"Oh, do I have to….."

Wrathwell raised an eyebrow as the sniper leant herself against her rifle "Do you want to get a bonus"

"Well, yeah, but a trek across Germany isn't how I want to spend my vacation time."

"It'll be fine, where were you going this time anyway?"

"Skegness"

"Well, now you have the chance to go abroad"

"There is a war on commander"

"Well, makes things a little interesting for you."

Groaning, the sniper grabbed a mud covered shovel and was gone into the darkness beyond the arches. Wrathwell raised his head to the cold sky above and breathed out.

"They'll be coming to check why the garrison's gone quiet any minute now. I don't have to tell you to speed up people"

He turned round; Harker was still leaning against the gyroscope, staring into the hole left by the thing as it fled back to the Fey realms.

"So Mina, what did you tell it?"

"I told it that the world wasn't ready for its kind and that the Fey Kingdoms was its true calling. I told it, that it should go home and find itself, become better and maybe one day, I'll let it slip through to wander the marshes once again. It was lost, and alone, scared maybe and I couldn't let it remain, however much it pleaded with me."

Wrathwell nodded sagely as the gyroscope finally spilt sending its contents scattering across the floor. He checked his watch, the hands finally reaching midnight as he watched. Deftly, he snapped the case shut and looked back into the shattered 'Box'.

"The claymore was useless…." Harker brushed a stray hair back into her massive pony tail "…had no effect, the bindings were pointless."

"I guess it'll be back to old glory then…."

Wrathwell nodded, lost in thought for a second before straightening back up.

"I guess, maybe its time to reap some souls once again."

She nodded, resting a slim hand on a shattered metal piece, the metal melting and sinking into the floor as she watched. "Just don't sharpen it too much this time. You remember what happened last time…."

"The sharpness went beyond the edge of the blade, yeah, I know. Well, it gave the Vampyres something to fear."

He paused, taking a seat on a rotten pew; it nearly gave way under his weight but held, barely.

"Alls well that ends well I guess, no unnecessary spilling of otherworldly blood too, that's very unlike you Mina….." Harker almost looked coy as she passed him by "…but then maybe not surprising for an Earl…." He paused, leaning back as the Usur Major twinkled high above "…or should I say Queen."

* * *

Renfield dropped down the steps as the torch he was carrying sputtered in the quiet breeze which blew round the old cathedral walls. He bent down, picking a discarded German helmet from the ground and raised it up, setting another into the bowl of the helm. Another one for his collection…

A quiet whimpering broke the silence as something shifted in the shadow of a low wall. His well attuned vision scattered across the rocks until a mud brown shape caught his attention behind a low wall. His thick hand caught the shape and wrenched it up right before starting back as the tear stained face of Lyra Seward rose into view, hands still clasped around her pistol. His face softened slightly before a new, harder edge crept into his tone.

"This is worthy of a court marshal for desertion…" She was still crying, the smell of pure fear cutting through his nostrils "…however, we aren't exactly the military and I'm not the one to kill unnecessarily, but Wrathwell…."

He paused, lowering the sniveling woman to the floor.

"…is really going to be pulling your leg for a very long time…I think I've found someone to do my laundry"


	8. Artemis Rising

"I Remember you….."

Blood stained sand met his feet as the hot sun burned down on the desert, his horse rolling behind him as the arrows finally took their toll. Metal rang against metal, the dark birds high above slowly wheeled in the sky as they waited for the many corpses to roll clear on the desert far below. Arab soldiers were sprinting across the sand, the light armour standing out amongst the iron plates and chain mail of the crusaders who barely held the line as panting horses tipped their riders into the field of battle. Ragged penants flew as Men-at-arms fell beside their masters.

It was carnage. Rage filled his very being as his own flag was torn down, his flag bearer bleeding heavily as he was set upon. His sword tore through the loose garments the enemy soldier had strung about his being. The other turned to defend as his fist broke through the ragged, coloured cloth of the soldier's face guard. Blood dribbled onto black beard as the sword was quickly reversed, disembowelling him.

There was blood scattered across the Red Cross drawn upon the white tabard that covered the majority of his breast plate as Vlad 'the Impaler' cut a bloody swathe through the Turks ranks as he brought punishment for past sins.

"Spill the blood of Heathens!!!" the cry screamed through the hot day as the men ran before his terror, his darkness, his rage. His was laughing, the cruel sound echoing across many a retreating soldier's mind. "Thy Time hath comest….meet thy end at my blade!!"

And he was there, his short brown hair flopping forward amongst the soldiers, their bodies falling decapitated as the last stains of their passing drained across his own armour. Green eyes glared back as the Impaler charged into the fray, his own sword ready. There was little left to fight, the younger of the two, his face unscarred, his armour bareing the signs of rust and improper maintenance as his rose up, his long sword, a bright steel needle slashing back and forth.

"You, Boy!!" Vlad threw his own arrogance at the face of the younger man, his face contorted in some form of self confidence. "…you fight like a Knight and yet you wear armour not fit of you. What is this show you throw before me? What is this falsehood you dare proclaim to be? You are no Knight!!"

"That is Sir to you heathen!!" The youth threw the Elder's words away as Vlad's arrogance was smashed aside by an impenetrable shield "…Knight Templar"

"The Poor do not deserve to fight alongside God's chosen"

"The Poor have as much a fight as you. Why do we be forced aside by your own arrogance when every man, woman and child must stand up for our King!"

"…and who is your King…" Insolence, the poverty stricken Knight Templar had no right to challenge his own authority. The Impaler's nostrils flared as the boy stood before him, breathing heavily as the Red Cross drawn across the white cloth caught the breeze. Bravery, courage and sheer terror stared back from behind the sparkling green eyes which broke through the blood stained mess of his face. The blood of others, obviously, there was no wounds anywhere else amidst the rusted chainmail. That power, that pure power and forceful intent was all, very much there and the Impaler could feel it. The youth spoke, his words forced as he began to pant, the field of battle clearing slowly around them.

"King Richard of England…."

They stood amongst the battle, their own fight lulling as the soldiers ran, their morale gone as on the horizon, flags and banners fluttered in the hot desert wind as a vast army of Crusaders breached the horizon.

"And who are you?"

"Sir Dante Wrathwell Pentdragon of the Knight Templar…and you who dare insult my order"

He replied, with a chuckle "…my name is Vlad III Dracul."

* * *

That cold night atop the mountain left in a flurry of rain drops, the desert too cleared from Alucard's mind like the water dripping from the Vampire's coat as he stood in the drafty interior of Saint Pauls. The whetstone came loose with a ringing clang as Wrathwell dragged it along the blade. His eyes never left the vampire, hands deftly moving across the scythe's blade. It was nearly the same height as Wrathwell, it seeming more like a staff then a dangerous weapon. Its haft was carved with a continuous string of runes Alucard failed to decipher in the time the man had been sitting there.

"That was a truly interesting story…." Every word dripped with sarcasm and malice as the Vampire spoke "…but why bore me with your prattle when you have brought me here for another reason….another motive"

"No….Wrathwell muttered, righting the scythe and leaning it against the altar beside him "…I have my orders and you have yours."

"There were no ghouls in London…." Walter spotted several more shadows moving between the columns on either side of the room "…the information was false."

"The Brat realises…." A vast form boiled from the darkness as Alfred Renfield moved into the light, a loose jacket covered an untucked canvas shirt. His white mop of hair was even more unruly then before, the haggard expression once more haunting his features.

Alucard's nostrils flared. He could scent the pack mentality seething behind the face, the thick hair and brown, gold flecked eyes.

"I thought your kind died with that infernal Captain."

"You thought wrong Bloodsucker. The Renfield clan is still strong."

"…and not just any wolf…." Alucard seemed to be filled with glee, a large, insane grin cutting across his features which usually occurred when something pleased him, like a fresh carcass or some nightmarish combat situation. "…a noble wolf, an individual beyond all power which the Vampire has no defence against. Tooth and Claw and Houndfire." He stopped, hand resting on the Casull pistol stowed in his coat. Wrathwell looked up warningly at the Wolf as he stepped forward. Nothing occurred however; Renfield instead leant against the pillar beside him and from beneath the thick wave of hair, stared intently at the Vampire.

"I mean…" Alucard continued, "…how do I deal with him, say woof? I mean, I can't speak your kinds' language."

"We speak English"

"You speak Scottish…that's bad enough"

He was testing his limits; Captain Wrathwell could see that, seeing how far he could go before Renfield snapped. But his patience was something to be admired, he'd only seen the wolf loose it twice, and there was some history behind the two occasions. For once Squad Hermes had the ball in their court. From the gantries high above, other Knights Templar not of his squad were watching, their faces in the black, their gazes unknown as were their humanity or calling. And he had 'Old Glory' back, the affectionately named War Scythe. A million souls screamed from each facet from the weapon and any lingering finger, a foot from the blade side would become lacerated. With such power came a bend in physics and here, the sharpness went beyond the edge of the blade.

This allowed Wrathwell to be a little more nonchalant about the whole situation. He pulled a lollipop from his inside pocket and pulled the wrapper off before sticking it into his mouth.

"Alucard…" a shout sounded across the space as the doors at the far end of the vast hall were flung open, the breeze increasing for a split second.

There was a clatter of boots on the marble floor as soldiers began to file into the long space. Each bore the crest of Hellsing, each letter picked out in black lettering amongst the gold border. Arthur Hellsing, his face bearing the signs of age stood amongst them as he hurried down the marble aisle. There was a shouted order as several large submachine guns were dropped into position, their operators readying their weapons as other soldiers took aim.

Arthur smoothed his untidy mop of hair back as stray ends broke free under his fingers.

"Alucard, you are to release your firearms and come with us. By her Majesty the Queen and Britain, you are deemed too powerful to be allowed to live and walk amongst us. The risk is too great and chance of your power escaping and reeking havoc has only one solution…."

A crimson eye swivelled in its socket and fixed the man with a dead eyed glare. Arthur held the gaze, his face stern.

"…if you do not surrender, we will fire and I think we've got enough magic bullets to rip you pieces. We will return you, piece by piece."

"What is this…?" Alucard snarled, his hand tightening round the holstered 'Cassull' "…betrayal?"

"Alucard….by order of her Majesty and the Blood Debt you owe to the Hellsing name, you are to surrender and hand over your _weapon_"

The Knight Templar rolled his eyes, raising the Scythe up as he pulled himself to his feet. Around them, Alucard became aware of other soldiers, their armour ornate and black standing in the black and the click and a silky hiss of swords, shields and maces alongside firearms been primed. They stayed in the black however, as if watching the show.

Arthur took a deep breath. "Alucard…"

"Betrayal is so familiar…." The vampire murmured as several Hellsing soldiers mounted the stairs and rose up to the vampire's position. Wrathwell hadn't moved, leaning on his scythe as if he was an old man "…but why are you here?"

"To watch…." The Captain muttered, the sweet still in his mouth "…to fulfil our purpose. I have no quarrel with you vampire."

"Sir…give up now…" the soldier's gruff voice broke through their conversation, Wrathwell fixing the soldier with a black stare "…do not become part of this Sir"

"I will when needed, Soldier Boy…" The Templar leant forward "…so what's it going to be, Monster?"

"Deeeeeaaaaaaattttttttthhhhhh...." he was through the surrounding soldiers like a knife, his shape billowing as bats flickered through the shadows. Screaming, the soldiers were cut down, their entrails spread across the floor. Arthur was pushed down, shielded as more soldiers gathered around him, yelling as their opened fire. Chaos ensued; men lost in the confusion as bullets flew, cutting through the vampire as he rose amongst the dead, his tongue dribbling with the disgusting fluid.

Pews exploded, their cushions torn as the vampire hurled himself through the hail of bullets, taunting those who got to close and ripping apart others, their passing hailed by a death rattle and gargle as his jaws met their throats. He was a cruel spectre, his red coat billowing as he landed again and again, his boots leaving bloody pools.

High above, the Templar hadn't moved and were still watching intently….

Shrieking, the vampire king was a flood of barbs and blades, the men falling as the monster passed among them. Black boiled, the talons of Hellhounds ringing out across the tiled floor as Hellsing splintered, the men panicked, as their secret weapon lost control. Arthur was yelling as his Commanders pulled him clear.

"You…." Alucard dropped the soldier, the man's throat torn out as he fell gargling. "…you betrayed me and tossed me aside like a soiled rag….Killed me and dragged me back to servitude, the boredom……to be shackled like a wild animal with no will of my own!! To be controlled and forced into darkness like a toy each time I wasn't needed. And it was all you…."

Arthur pulled himself free of the surrounding soldiers, pulling the rapier from its scabbard. Bright steel flashed as the man stood, upright, aloof and ready. His moustache twitched as his blue eyes flickered. All his thoughts were with the small child asleep at home and protecting her from monsters such as this…

"You try to attack me with that toothpick…" Alucard's blood covered talons rose up as more men tried to rush forward, trying to stop Arthur Helsing from his suicidal path "…are you a man or a dog?"

"I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…I shall not fear death" Alucard loomed his fangs ripping from his gums as his talons extended. The vampire had altered his height so he towered over the old man like a tidal wave.

"Alucard…." Even Walter's desperate shout failed to stop the vampire as wires were readied. "…Sir Helsing…" and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned, meeting the gold flecked eyes of the Wolf behind him. Renfield shook his head

"I have a rendezvous with Death at some disputed barricade when Spring comes round with rustling shade and apple blossoms fill the air….I shall not fear you Beast!!!"

"I will Kill you Human!!!" Images, a moment from death, the swaddled babe, the men who'd served with him, Penwood, Sir Islands, the men and monsters they'd faced, the war and the home, his home.

"I have no fear…"

Alucard bore down on him like a tempest, claws ripping from hands as the daemon, the vampire dropped for the kill.

And stopped….

A thick metal chain burned, loose cloth cut into his flesh as all movement stopped. The stench of spices rolled through his senses as red hair caught the breeze. Cloth was pulled taut around his neck as his mouth curled in surprise.

Palm met palm as the sound of a man clapping echoed across the space. It sounded over the dead bodies, their uniforms blood stained and torn. It echoed across the frozen vampire and the man beneath his claws, the ever silent watchful Knights high above or shrouded in shadow in the cloisters.

"Good Show….Good show…" Wrathwell walked amongst the dead with little care, the scythe resting over his shoulder "…I never truly doubted your abilities. You alright Harker?"

Nearly bent double, the slight form of the Templar was nearly flat against the floor, a charm cord pulled tight around the Vampire's neck. "…I'm fine, Thank you. Andrew"

"You see…" The Templar leant the scythe against a pew as he addressed the vampire "…blood rituals and contracts need individuals with special abilities to carry them out. You see, Hellsing are all just men who follow and protect. You only have one secret weapon. But how do you seal a monster to your organization through a blood contract. By yourself, no. You seek help from those who know. I.E, people like us."

Alucard growled in response, Harker pulling tighter.

"Now, now Dracul, don't get too annoyed. You not nice to talk to when you're mad"

"Your prattle is beginning to bore me, Mortal. You fought beside me and I had patience. In Germany, against the Nazi scum and their insane plots you fought and you gained my respect, do you dare loose it."

"I have little care for your opinion…."

"And this..." he nodded toward Harker's form "…is not Mina Harker…but you insist on using that name like it is a plaything."

"It's merely a codename, a name that refers to a monstrous beauty, to be evil but beautiful to most, much like your bride…."

Casull was in his grip before most of Soldiers could reach for their own firearms, Wrathwell's body pitching over the pews and landing in a cloud of splinters, blood pouring from his forehead as the bullet impacted, his skull shattering. Alucard emptied his clip into Harker before she could move, the bullets tinkling away as the cartridge click empty. Bone broke, flesh tore, organs split and sent black ichor spilling across the floor as charm string broke, magic fizzling out as the body of Harker felling into a bloody pool, the room witness to its ruin.

* * *

Lyra started forward yelling as the Captain fell, 'Old Glory' clattering as it dropped to the floor. The others on her gantry didn't respond, their faces glaring ever intently downwards as the vampire slotted another cartridge into his gun. Lord Winslow, his gnarled hands gripping the blanket covering his knees, coughed from his wheel chair as Rosselitto looked up, her red hair been brushed out the way as her high collared, tight felt armor failed to catch the light cast by the many stained glass windows. She caught the woman gently, soothing words filling Lyra's mind as tears poured freely. He was there, dead amongst the ruins of battle, ignored and forgotten by the others. She looked up into the other woman's pale, long face and met the cold blue eyes.

Winslow stirred in his wheelchair, his head bowed, his lips moving as the other Knights rose from their silent vigils.

"By the order and duties of the Knights Templar I fully release all restrictions and request that the Darwin Paradox be put into effect until told otherwise. The Paradox is to be used without prejudice, and Alpha levels blood rites are to be released, as requested by Lord Alfred Gregory Merlin Winslow of the Her Majesty's Knight Templar."

He looked up, eyeing the young woman coldly "…you will stand down Lieutenant Seward"

* * *

"Pathetic…" Alucard snarled "…pathetic, weak mortals….with all your whimsical beliefs in heroism, honour and courage you still fall just as easily" he started cackling in the cold air, the stench of death and gun smoke in his nostrils, in his mind as he reveled in the slaughter. Arthur gripped the sword in both hands, his knuckles white as his arms shook.

"Where were we little man…." The vampire rose up to full height, his form towering over the man who stood before.

"Damn…" 'Old Glory' rose from the floor as an arm rose from the wreckage, as Wrathwell's trademark brown trench coat blowing in some unfelt breeze "…you broke my lollypop…" there was the sound of muffled swearing before a shape rose from the wreckage "…its been a while since I've been shot in the head, that stings a smidge"

"How…?" Alucard felt his sanity snap as what he thought was dead rose to his feet and stood a couple of feet away, the scythe ready.

"You see…." Wrathwell sneered "…I'm not exactly human and neither…"he nodded his head toward Harker's ruined corpse"…is she and 'she' will be coming back to life anytime shortly. Shoot her, cut off her head, burn her body!! She is like nothing you've ever faced before. You think you're the monster!! You have no idea…."

She was bladed tornado, the pews and tearing up in the howling winds as green lightning tore through the space. Alucard fell back in surprise as the body rose from the floor as crucified, the green fire spread about her head like fire as fingers cast outward, each slim digit reknitting as her skin healed, blood flowing back into wounds. Muscles became one, the lingering strands of nerve endings cutting back across each link and uniting, sparking as green eldritch energy flowed down their length.

The mask fell, shattering on the floor as the daemons and Angels carved into its surface split, their faces rising in praise as their arms pushed on across the metal, dropping to meet the daemons who joined ranks, powerful, varied and dark Armies becoming one massive fighting force.

Thick antlers erupted from her scalp, folding round to surround her head in a organic crown as golden irises came into being. Like mist, ragged cloth floated on the tornado, its surface ethereal and near transparent as thicker garments appeared beneath. Sleeves grew encasing the arms, a mixture of silks and chainmail covered each ebony colour patch of skin, leaving the fingers bare.

Surrounded by the mane of her hair and the four crown like antler which erupted from within, her face was serene, the long line of her jaw and slightly hooked nose two of the more striking features of her smooth face. She was most definitely elfin in appearance, her features well defined. Embroidered ivy and plants 'grew' up her skirts, their leaves unfurling outlined by gold lace as ragged silks spewed round her form.

Her beauty was wonderful and terrible to behold as the Erlkonnig hung in a air, her arms outstretched as the wind halted, her finger figure alighting on the floor as her black armored feet made little noise on the cold, marble floor. Arthur let his sword drop as Harker cast her cold gaze across the room.

"Beautiful….."

"What trickery is this…?"

"The master of illusions, the Erlkonnig who once tempted many a traveler to their deaths in German forests, you remember, the Opera…" Wrathwell called over the howling wind, his face grim "…Die Erlkonnig, The Elf King…" he grinned ruthlessly as he turned to the Vampire "…this world was a lot deeper even before you were born, you believe yourself to be special, you are but a cog in a far greater machine even with your captured individual self, you are part of something else."

"And I am but a remnant…" Harker rose to her feet beside the bodies "…the last remnant of honour among the Fey. You may call me a monster…" she said coldly, a sharp snap to each word "…but I am merely a lost warrior, not drawn to violence like beings such as yourself, Dracul…."

The sword tore from its sheath before most registered the fact she was even carrying a sword, a thin stiletto blade tearing through the dark matter which was Alucard's being. The scythe was spinning upwards as Wrathwell leapt from a pew, the blade curving. He parried, the Cassul rising up as Harker leapt round to his back. Her blade skimmed the red fabric of his coat as he snarled, dragging a razor sharp claw across her dark, unblemished face.

He touched empty air as multiple images of Harker sent his vision tumbling. A scythe blade slashed the air by his face, blood spattering as the vampire fell away, the pistol recoiling in his grip as it blew holes in the pews and any men stupid enough to be still standing. Wrathwell hit the floor, catching Arthur as the old man stumbled back, his sword dropping at Harker's true form.

The Elf Queen was spectre, a white rag on the breeze as she poured her malice into the blade, darting down and down again like a seamstresses's needle into cloth. The clatter of hellhounds feet rang across the empty space to as the six eyed beasts charged into view, the slaver of drool rolling from their fangs as they ran. Wrathwell was up, tossing Sir Helsing into a crowd of his own men and turned. The scythe was more designed for long reach attacks before dragging the foe back in to cause most damage. Though now too close to attack, Wrathwell was a blur, the scythe slicing through the lead hound before it had time to strike, the darkness bubbling away as the enchanted blade cut a ragged hole in its side.

The jaws broke apart and reared as the templar pulled the scythe up in a arch, leaping into the waiting jaws of the second Hellhound. It snapped shut, almost grinning with joy as the templar disappeared.

Harker rolled aside as a black bolt blew apart a column at her back, a templar soldier scurrying for cover in the shadow at her back. Her armored feet dug twin holes in the stone floor as burst forward, a blade slashing down and severing a red clad arm from its socket. His arm erupted dark fluid as the severed arm reunited, the Elf swearing in some unknown tongue as she knocked aside the Casull as it tried to take another chunk out of the side of her face.

He was laughing, cackling as his fangs tore from his gums; his head craning back as he celebrated the fight, the small war the three were waging. He had finally met someone who could face him, not the freaks Hellsing had him stumbling after like some dog. Here was something fresh, something new, something he'd never truly been able to comprehend. He had always known, of course, the dark whispers in his dreams had always hinted.

Her red hair a halo around her features, Harker's perfect face split in a snarl of such anger that the sky outside seemed to darken as the rain began to lash at the windows.

"Where have you been all my life….!!!" He was teasing her, his long, serpentine tongue curling about his teeth as he poured back, his robe disintegrating into a barbed black shadow. "…lurking in some forest like the old stories used to say. I was expecting a man with a crown and beard, not a beauty as lovely as you."

"Quiet, you Bloodsucker!!!"

"Oh such words, you are more wonderful to behold when your blood is up."

"Such words from someone so young…." She murmured as she brushed past him, her movements hard to track as a blade cut a ribbon out his chest. "…Ancient, 500 hundred years?!....pah!! I've seen civilizations crumble"

"Do I refer to you as an old Nag….my lady…?" His arm split into two as a vast dog's head tore from his sleeves. He sent it surging toward her as she caught herself on a fallen pew. She leapt up, skipping across its head as if at play.

"Is that insolence, from a child?" she was laughing now as she skipped, sending several after images of herself across his mind, each raising the 'Casull' up to fire.

"Bang!!!"

He raised the actual gun, blinking to clear the illusion from his vision as he opened fire, just as the silver blade nicked the side of his neck. She was laughing, taunting him as his words echoed back in his mind. Rippling, ragged cloth brushed his face as she was gone, a shape becoming one with the wood and the stone.

"Where's your toadstool little elf!!! Where's your fairy ring!!"

"The Fey are overrated if you truly believe the stories"

The hellhound came sprinting back as she jumped forward, her hair trailing as the blade shot up like a spear, Alucard only just able to swirl out the way as she pushed on through her Golden eyes suddenly visible as she fixed him with an intense glare.

"The Erlkonnig was never refered truly as male or female. There weren't many pictures shown. It was just a shadow to scare children. I am a whole lot more realer." She skidded, the green cloth she was clad in spinning and flickering round her as her very form seemed to shimmer out of reality for a moment before dropping back with wild abandon.

"And the name, did you call yourself that…."

"Harker was merely a way of denoting another purpose." She rematerialized a inch from his face, too close for his pistol to find a mark. Her lips met his, the smell of exotic spices and woodland trees coursing through his nostrils. And she was gone again, her kiss still present on his lips, tantalizingly close, seductive but gone….

"Stop taunting me!!!"

The hellhound howled in pain, the dog erupting as the form of Wrathwell broke free, the scythe swinging round as the human put all his weight into the swing, the blade whistling as it was brought round. Alucard just managed to push forward as the blade caught his side, the pistol blasting a hole in the man's shoulder. It reformed immediately, skin reknitting as it rejected the bullet.

"A regenerator!!! Your not even human….your a thing…..a failed science….."

"…Not an failed experiment you bastard…" Wrathwell, broke his jaw with a solid punch, the vampire recoiling "…I ain't from some lab and I ain't some plaything, you're looking for another word"

The jaw became one, the vampire leering as a shadow blade blocked Harker as she broke away from the wood at his back.

"You're an Immortal, one cursed to walk the earth while others rot and die around you, you unable to find peace in the mortal planes as everything becomes dust around you"

Wrathwell swiped at the vampire's head with a mailed fist. The darkness reared its many heads and screamed from the vampire's side, its fangs creating white tears in the black. Wrathwall caught the first tendril along the length of his scythe, the runes blazing, spinning the bolt away in a quick flurry of movements. He whirled aside, the long coat already ragged from Alucard's previous attacks.

"The Night is still young…." The vampire hissed, his teeth glinting as he smiled "…throw everything you have at me. Come on, COME ON!!!"

"Repent you wanker because your end is extremely fucking nigh…!!!!" Wrathwall snarled, 'Old Glory' catching another bolt and hurling it away. He was gone, the ragged blur of his coat whirling across Alucard's vision. He was to fast to track, though without been a vampire, the human moved extremely quickly, his hands blurring as he twisted. Alucard caught the scythe with one hand, the silver burning, his hand erupting smoke as the blessed steel and silver cut a large welt across his palm. This erupted black tendrils as he pushed it aside, Wrathwall falling with it as he lost his balance. The vampire king erupted another black beam, huge barbs tearing from its nearly impervious surface, hoping to skewer Wrathwall on its thorns.

The Captain was gone, his brown coat cutting a slice out of Alucard's face as he passed. Alucard turned, seeing the slim glitter of silver sown into the inside of the coat. Alucard cackled, a fist rising from the black, his opponent tossed bodily across the wreckage, men running for their lives beneath him as he skidded to a halt, nearly a hundred metres from the vampire.

The vast pistol was in his grip before Alucard could moved, a hole about the size of a dinner plate blowing through the vampire's stomach and blowing apart a bench behind him. He staggered, a sharp pain exploding in his being. Shock, that wasn't something he'd felt in a long time.

"What are in those? Those little bullets of yours must be very…very special" He barely managed to talk as he struggled to heal, blood pooling from his eyes and mouth.

"Grave Earth, the special variety too. Romanian, from the blood of your homeland, the spot where you renounced God."

Another shot blew his arm from his socket, his arm barely managed to regenerate as Wrathwell backhanded the vampire sending Alucard tumbling.

"With mistletoe tips. Whereas you relied on armor piercing shells and Macedonian silver, these rounds, though rubbish at puncturing heavily armored targets are very dangerous to vampires, seeing as most, standard issue stakes are made out of mistletoe. Van Helsing used to swear by them and had them over silver each time….and at them too; they tend to have a lot of splinters"

He sent another shot into the vampire's prone body as Harker rematerialized beside the vampire, kneeling beside his form. Even now, the form was shifting, dark shadows appearing but disappearing immediately as they left his body. He was more of a shadow on the floor then any visible form as hundreds of crimson pupiled eyes burst open across his body before closing…..one by one.

Wrathwell clamped the pistol muzzle into Alucard's black mane which was struggling to decide which length it should be.

"You and I are nearly the same, really…" he said, arm not moving even with the adrenaline burning through his system. "…we're both timeless beings who have been reduced to violence under the control of some over bearing master. We both fight for the protection of England, Britain in fact. We both want to be free as well, you free to walk the night and live like you want to, me to leave this life and go somewhere where life is eternal and I may at last love some one who does not turn to dust or boil away into the depths of hell…"

"You….r….r…r…" Corpse white lips tried to moved "….prattle is boring me"

Wrathwell shot him again, a black dog howling in pain appeared in vampire's place before reforming.

"…two shots left. True, it does to some. With all the time I've had, I could have come up with something interesting to say. I thought all Heroes liked to use puns. However, that's not who I am. To escape madness, I've made myself very lonely in the process. No matter how well I live, all those die and becoming nothing. You must know how I feel of course…"

"If you ask me…" Alucard murmured "…you've been wasting your time"

"…one shot left. Now, I was not ordered to attack and kill you, that was up to Hellsing, I was here to protect him…" he pointed to Arthur, who, pale and shaking, was making his way toward them, surrounded by his men "…and you attacked him. But I do not kill humans or dogs. You fought alongside me twice, though I've help slay you twice. You've given me information and trained some of our men. You, like me, are a soldier and I salute you for the job you have done."

He leant close.

"But remember Monster, one step out of line, one stray kill and I promise you, this last bullet it for you and I will not miss. I've seen your place in hell"

"Empty words, Aegis…" he responded a single red eye rolling back in its socket as he turned his head "…I pray my bullets find your head and I will end your eternal torment. Or perhaps, I will surround myself with those who will outlive even me, just to watch you suffer when all other die around you."

Wrathwell straightened up, holstering the gun, his long brown coat dropping around his form as several soldiers brought a black leather straight jacket up to Alucard's body.

"You do that, Vampire. I'm used to it…" he grinned ruthlessly, "…but if you push me again, I will hunt down your pets and I will kill them, one by one, slowly, so you can hear their screams. Because you know what, something you may have missed earlier…" he rested a hand on the large revolver "…my squad, my gun are known as Hermes and our soul purpose is to deal with like madness like you. And guess what….we ate your wings."

Alucard began to laugh his weakened form flickering as the straightjacket was pulled into place "…you fool, you do truly deserve respect because you have earned mine. You both are truly a challenge worthy of a vampire king!! But you, my dear…" he turned his head to look at Harker, her mask falling back into place as the silver armour and black leather replaced the ivy green and gold of her dress "…what is your true name if Harker is merely a codename?"

"My name…." she paused pensively, her long fingers curling beneath the point of her mask "…my name is Artemis."


	9. Happenings, Random Shorts and Ideas

Not really part of the story but this is just a small section i created while coming up with new ideas and developing the Templar characters so be prepared for a little randomness along the way....

* * *

Var you the var is over!!

* * *

They'd been through her small room several times all ready, the dark grey of their uniforms now a very familiar sight in Prison Block E. All her things, turned upside down, furniture moved and pictures rearranged. They'd even lifted the stove to check for any escape routes underneath, the German officer barking orders as the young, slightly nervous soldiers checked under her bed, again.

They didn't find anything, they never did, but the Kommandent was adamant that she was up to something. Been the only captured female perhaps, or spending her days lying around her bed with a cigarette hanging from drawn lips as her dyed white hair forever covered the gleeful smirk.

Swearing, the officer took one horrible look at the single female occupant of the room. Unervingly, she just stood there, ignorant with a sly grin on her face, smelling strongly of tobacco and never said a word. Even when that fat SS officer known to most as the Major paid a visit she remained silent.

He'd requested that she'd be transferred to Warsaw to allow him to have a thorough examination. He seemed quite pleased, his fat cheeks puffing up in glee as the little round man rolled from the room, accompanied by that white coated doctor. He'd spent the entire interview staring intently at her through thick spectacles, their many lenses showing several reflections of her own, tired face.

And that was tomorrow, they were going to move her tomorrow. She lay back on her bed, the top bunk of a hastily put together mess and took a drag of another contraband cigarette. Sighing, she rolled over. In all their fevour to find her tunnel, they'd forgot to look in the most obvious place, the mens barracks where one, extremely large tunnel was currently awaiting her.

That, and a rather large tunnel under the German Commander's prized staff car.

* * *

Psycological Study

Mina Harker

This fascinating individual is one of the many, non human entities existing within the Templar Bastion. She, like Renfield, appears to be mourning something, however, unlike the wolf; she seems focused on some vast thing she knows she'll be never been able to fix herself. This seems to drive her on, unable to pull herself from her past regrets. Apart from this, her mind seems to one of a small child. Everything is a new experience; her view of Christmas appears to fill her with a great sense of joy……and confusion.

* * *

Templar Bastion guidelines

Do not disturb Holmwood at any point. He takes been disturbed very badly.

Do not throw balls in front of Alfred Renfield.

Do not throw balls in front of Renfield but a hold of the ball to mimic it been thrown. It will take him a while to work out you've got it and at the point he works it out, he will not be happy

Remind Marian that she must not try to join the dots on Zorin Blitz's face.

Remind Marian that concession trays are for the needy and she is not…

Remind Marian that the font is too…

As well as communion wafers…

And communion wine…

Book Stalls…

Generally anything not nailed down.

Remind Marian that she cannot use the hammer or crowbar to remove objects nailed down.

Also remind Marian that stealing the nails is also an all round 'bad thing'.

The librarians are not to be touched (Marian).

Use of a vacuum cleaners round Renfield is forbidden, he gets very nervous and hid in a closet for three days after the last clean up.

Do not, on any circumstances make comments about the lustre of Renfield's hair/Fur

Do not ask Renfield for shampoo, though been permanently free from fleas is a bonus…

Do not borrow Marian's shampoo unless you want white hair

Shadows = Harker

The Large grey wolf which roams the cellars at night is dangerous and will bite. Any major hair growth after been bitten and cravings for Full moons must be reported to the Sisters of the Mourned Shroud.

We are all well aware that one of the tattoos on Zorin Blitz's face does read "Elvis Lives" and it doesn't need repeating to us several times.

Shooting Schrödinger is a waste of ammo, though incredibly satisfying.

Do not disturb the captain when he is propping up the bar. He will shoot you whether you regenerate or not.

The squad is not named after a certain STD. That was a typo in the last Templar Circular.

The bottles of Blood in Wrathwell's room are there for a reason.

Do not eat Renfield's medication. Firstly because they are very expensive and secondly, what the hell would you be doing in his room anyway? Thirdly, because you will die very painfully after ingesting it. It is wolfsbane after all.

Do not refer to the dog basket in Renfield's room or enquire to where the 'dog' is.

Keep a ball of string with you in the Library. We're still looking for the last one who forgot.

Unlike the Hellsing's gently, gently approach, we are a standing army so do not expect any 'gloves on' treatment. Afternoon tea served at 2:00pm

The words 'my, what big fangs you have' will end with the climax of your short life.

We don't believe in unnecessary cruelty. [_Footnote:_ We are bang alongside the idea of necessary cruelty, of course.]

Doing dental checks for the Hellsing Organisation is the not the easy way out.

Coffee breaks are extremely important.

Annoying Henry will end with you not sleeping, ever.

Lack of cooperation with our 'No swearing rule' will involve a hefty fine. Do not see Marian when paying up….

Cries of 'What!! Oblong!! May cause most of the Squad to attack you. As will 'Ahh! Quantum'

Fairy dust must not be ingested.

Clack Paddles must not be used to play Ping Pong.

Renfield's Piano Playing = Good. Marian's whistling = Run

Squad member retrieval must be adhered too, even if with some the Knights Templar are known to draw straws.

The Night Club 'Fernir' must not be entered on a full moon.

Do not play with the Mortals' heads

Use of the chalkboards to play noughts and crosses or hangman will likely involve pain.

We know what Alucard's name is backward so please do not repeat it to us every time we meet him.

Do not spread birdseed or nuts near Rossellitto.

The arcane weapons division is a no go; Head Engineer Holmwood is always looking for volunteers.

Playing of charades by the junior members is forbidden. Most of the control art restrictions are controlled by hand movements and different body positions and we all know what happened last time.

Playing of charades by senior members will usually involve them having their limbs removed.

Prayer and Worship must be restricted to on site prayer rooms, several of our members are Religious Allergens and will react badly.

Any detailed studies into several senior officials' namesakes are forbidden.

Do not mention the word Soul Reaper in front of Wrathwell

Any anime references round Shia'ra or mentions of a specific form of manga which is more 'seedier' and obscure then the mainstream (Note; the Fisherman's Wife) will end up with your consumption (That is; she will rip you shreds……)

Stealing will be met with justice, generally a large stick with nails in it.

* * *

The Sun sets over London

* * *

The soft tinkle of piano keys echoed through the empty corridors. Lyra pulled the bundle of laundry up to her chin, struggling to reach the keys for all the doors. It was the last stop; Renfield's thick brown cloak had finally been pulled from the wash, its heavy fibres weighing a tonne as she pulled it from the laundry bag's folds. She had staggered for quite some time up the corridor, the item more awkward then heavy, struggling to hold in place as the doors and hours slipped by.

Renfield's door was open, the soft tones of an old, slightly tuneless piano echoing from the interior of the room, where several soft candles lit the cosy space beyond. She knocked once, pushing into the warm interior of the Werewolf's room as a muffled grunt echoed in response.

"Renfield, I've got your washing, oh…." She stopped, surprised. The bulk of Renfield was hunched in a small pool of light on the opposite wall. He was dressed in his shirt sleeves, the braces of his trousers strewn across the chair, his feet bare. What caught her eye more was the fact he was playing a piano.

He was nearly bent double, glaring owlishly at several pieces of scratchy paper, their surfaces covered with scribbles and musical notes. His thick fingers were playing some strange, mournful pieces, the sharps and flats running beneath his rough hands, the grey mess of hair falling forward each time he hit a minor note, the piece gaining a whole different edge.

Jazz, she recognised it, the same music Marian loved to listen to when she was in her more docile moods. It just seemed so out of place, the rhythmic melody been played by such a monster. But then, could you truly class the brute as a monster. He seemed to be constantly calm, or sleeping. The bloody rage she'd read so much about was not apparent. Sure, when dealing with enemies, it was near enough; however that was cool and well thought out murder, nothing more, nothing less. Here, Renfield was still a human.

She'd never really been into his room before, up to this point she'd never really been into anyone's quarters, leaving clothes from the laundry outside their doors before slipping away to the library or to trim her orchids in the deepest section of the Bastion. Renfield however, made her feel comfortable. His presence seethed with warm welcome, not hatred or angst. That's why she'd entered in the first place, that's why she glanced around the room now.

The sand stone floor was covered with a thick red and patterned carpet, the golden diamonds sown into its surface. His bed was a well, self carved object, the soft sheets covered with the same dark red cloth which made up the carpet. It was unmade, the heavy sheets stirred aside from when he rose that morning. Beside that, the large doggy bed was covered with old rags an old teddy bear starring at her with one glassy eye, the other gone. It hadn't been used in a while, the sheets were still made and even neater the bed beside it. A large alarm clock stood next to the bed, ticking as another dial under the hands showed the moon's progress. It was only on a sickle moon tonight, the wolf ignoring the sky for once.

Another note caught a stray string within the piano causing the tune to jerk slightly. Renfield swore quietly, his hands continuing to run over the keys. Lyra continued her quick glance across the room. One painting hung over a lacquered pine dresser at the far end of the room where men readied for war, old 17th century clothes dripping from their bodies, the richness of colour set into a deep black background, the cobbles at their feet all individually painted. A single bunch of flowers rested besides the painting, their flowers in full bloom, well watered obviously.

She realised the Music had stopped; the creak of keys had halted. She turned, coming face to face with Renfield himself. She gulped, his face impassive as he lent closer, the smell of wet dog and wood polish pouring off him.

"What?"

"Y…y…yy….your Laundry" she pushed the cloak forward into his arms.

"Thanks…"

* * *

Notes of a Ration

* * *

The air was full of ash as the single sprinting man roared down the empty streets, scattering rubble as he charged forward, his hair slewing round his face. He was nearly bent double, his breaths coming hard and fast as he ran on. Beyond the ash, the sky was full of Blitz Balloons, their huge forms ominous even if their true purpose was much more positive. As the cold 1944 day time air rushed by, Andrew Wrathwell raised his head to the dark sky swore.

There, amongst the rubble of the destroyed terraces, a single dark shape, a large brown cloak fanning out behind him was a man, his grey hair fanning around his face as the light reflected off the beginnings of a silvery beard upon the rough, haggard face.

He was gone in a flurry of brick dust, his own feet drumming off the wrecked floor as he too sprinted through the whirling ash. Andrew swore pushing himself onwards as the other disappeared through a dilapidated doorway, into the rusted metal of an old bedroom beyond, the clatter of falling iron breaking through the nearly silent air.

Wrathwell leapt out onto the street, his brown coat billowing out behind him as his prey broke from the destruction his path marked by the vast cloud of dust which seemed to follow him along the street. Several Air raid wardens swore as the pair charged past, their dark shadows rippling over the remains of streets. The shouts of the wardens in his ears, Wrathwell spurred himself onward; the single scrap of paper clenched in his thick iron gauntlets a bare reminder of his purpose.

An old car was pushed back as the other pushed through and with inhuman strength, tried to block his way. Wrathwell leapt the burnt out wreckage, his boots smacking into the ground on the other side as he caught himself, his speed increasing as he leathered his already tired muscles into full speed. They both skidded out onto an open street, the prey's feet digging holes in the ground as he skidded on the loose ground, the amount of force he was applying to his legs would of snapped the legs of a lesser man but the creature was able to outpace and survive which was surprising, even to Andrew who'd spent his years chasing freaks across Britain, his own legs screaming in agony as he powered onward.

Amdist untold destruction, children played as families searched through the ruins for possessions, their own homes gone but their lives not lost. So was east end, the sadness which remained was nearly unbearable as the losts' houses were cleared of metal to be melted down for ammunition, their owners buried and long dead.

He ducked below a ladder, sending another warden into a fit of swearing as his feet broke several cobbles as he leapt the street, his passage leaving a large hole where'd he'd passed over. He leapt the remains of a fence and bulled into the creature which had paused before what appeared to be a still standing butchers on a street corner. It was miraculously still standing, even if the windows were blown out.

This was quite lucky for Wrathwell as he bulldozed through, his arms wrapped around his prey as they both exploded through the remains of the window. They slammed to the floor, Wrathwell finding a thick arm wrapping round his head as he punched the other in the stomach. Swearing he pulled back his fingers, his joints cracking. It was like punching a brick wall, steely muscle clenching round his neck. A knee caught him the face and tipped him backward as he cracked the back of his head on the window frame. He bulled up, breaking the grip of his assailant and slammed the top of his head into the other's jaw. It fell away swearing as the coarse cloth shirt it wore was splattered with blood.

There was a polite cough and Wrathwell looked up into the small queue of women waiting at the butcher's counter, the butcher himself leaning across the chopping board to watch the two men. The scene froze. Wrathwell had Renfield in a head lock, Alfred trying to reach Andrew's neck with a large cleaver he'd wrenched from the side but was unable to for the fact that Wrathwell had broken his arm. The onlookers paled slightly as Renfield's arm regenerated, allowing the wolf to smash his superior in the nose before pushing forward, a single scrap of paper grasped in his hand.

He didn't quite make as Andrew broke a three inch thick chopping board over the wyrewolf's head and slammed his own, crumpled slip of paper down in front of the butcher ignoring the wyrewolf's venomous mutter of 'youbastard', his hand still resting on the counter surface as he feebly tried to raise, finding Wrathwell's boot pressing down on the back of his head.

"I believe you've got sausages for me…"

The butcher raised his glasses to his face and squinted at the single, dog eared scrap of paper clutched in the templar's hand and glanced down at the pain wracked fingers of Renfield desperately clinging to his counter.

"Sorry lads…" the man took a deep breath, gesturing to the said meat on the slab by his had "…but sadly that was already been claimed by that young miss" he pointed at the woman at the front of the queue. Wrathwell and Renfield, though with great difficulty turned to stare at the black haired, blue haired individual behind. Lyra smiled back, her own ration slip resting on the table beside the sausages.

"Nnnaaaahahhhhhhhh!!!!!!"

"Better luck next time lads"

There was a muffled groan from the floor as two fingers rose up, their owner signalling for the butcher to lean closer.

"Have……you got any liver"

"I do in fact; your slip does cover it."

"Guess we're eating that tonight then…" Wrathwell planted his own slip down on the counter.

Lyra smiled gleefully "Guess what I'm having tonight, Sir"

Wrathwell's look could of split stone

* * *

"You owe me five quid fairy queen"

"I will pay you, when I'm paid…" Harker murmured, her hair caught in the breeze as she leapt down from the still standing street light opposite the butchers "…but I think it's a little immoral to give all of them the same ration slip."

"So what…." The sniper murmured, enjoying the sun atop a large brick slab several metres away, a cat like expression of pure evil written across her features "…good money maker for me"

"Sounds more like schadenfreude"

"And? No one else complains. Just another day at the races…yeeah…." She turned her head and squinted at Harker's retreating back, the Elf pulling a large green shawl around her blaze of red hair "…just another day at the races."


	10. Enter, A Bogeyman

The dark space beneath the bed seethed with some unholy life as Integra Helsing fell back on her bed, her white cloth nightdress spilling round her form. It had been a usual evening, dinner in the kitchen while the main dining hall was used for a meeting, before her Father, Arthur Helsing carried her to bed. There, he'd told her stories about Fairies and old British Folklore before kissing her good night and leaving, making sure the room door ajar to allow the light in the corridor to illuminate the many shadows in Integra's lofty room as instructed by the 7 year old Helsing.

But not all the shadows had gone and as the night wore on, this particular shadow was quietly murmuring to itself beneath the bed. Its surging black moving amongst the several flickers of red light which emanated from unseen eyes, their glow the only evidence of their existence. She pulled the old teddy bear of her mother's to her chest and reached warily for her glasses on the bedside table, making sure that her hand did not linger too long over the gap.

She'd called for her father, a gruff body guard coming to her aid instead of Arthur's stumbling gait. He lit the gap beneath the bed and saw nothing, just lost toys. He'd then shushed her, patting her head as he left. This did nothing to abate her fear, that shadow always came back; she see could still black tendrils creeping across the soft fabric of one of her carpets. She'd called again; the same guard came back and checked. He had scolded her that time, the underneath empty, the floor where the pretty malignant shadow waited was bare of all life, be that unholy or undead.

She hated this house; the well furnished corridors had too many shadows and the underground facility which spanned for a long distance below the house was filled with cobwebs and old, bloodthirsty memories. The men were cold and monstrous to her, their eyes empty along with smiles each time Arthur had taken her down to the barracks on his inspections. There was something waiting here, a presence waiting deep below the earth which disturbed her dreams and caused her to see shadows in her peripheral vision. It was always ghostly shadows or a single flicker of red cloth.

Now, the dolls on the shelves eyes of pitch, their shadows flickering as something shifted. She hated the dark, the black of night. She demanded that the lights be left on and she would wander through the house, turning on each light as she went, her path never straying into shadow as she walked, her teddy bear clutched to her chest as she searched for her father who would lock himself away in his study or be talking to stony faced men round one large, round table.

She wasn't adventurous, her travels never leaving her family's apartments except to attend a small nearby school, which Walter drove her too. He was away at the moment; Arthur had him working abroad on 'Business', something the Butler never truly alluded to. He would have been there, to comfort her and chide at her foolishness and to deal with the nightmare which waited below her small frame.

She pushed the glasses into place, her breaths quick and fearful as something rumbled to itself, a foot below. And it wasn't the only thing; she was also acutely aware of a shadow passing before the window. Some stony something ground against the wall outside her window as some wolfish shape 'thing' passed by, its shape hard to follow. Even through all her panic, it really put her in mind of the gargoyles that waited on the high walls of the estate. The very ones who seemed always busy when observed at a distance, their forms occasionally shifting to cluster in small groups near the meeting rooms and then, in most cases, would disappear for no apparent reason.

That was one small obsession of Arthur's. He always kept track of where exactly the Helsing's stony rooftop inhabitants were and where exactly they'd been before. He'd even tried marking each stony individual, but each stony individual had shed the paint by morning and all bore a wry grin on their faces, their carved snouts curling back in mocking, though silent laughter.

Actually, compared to the shadowy halls of the Mansion, the breezy gardens were a comfort, a place where her mother had always wandered, or so her father had told her. Strangely so, it was also of some comfort that the gargoyles were extremely prevalent in the walled gardens. Their stony eyes were more alive then the other men would appreciate and though very slight, they defiantly moved in their positions. A stray arm, a raised eyebrow, the occasional hand of cards clutched in the claws of a small trio upon the clock tower.

* * *

The Raven cawed as its beady eyes watched the empty roads from atop the large column which dwarfed the entrance to the Helsing estate. For now, its attention was caught by a large shadow a few metres from its perch and the single metal trinket which dripped from its hands.

To most passersby, the tall, cloaked figure that stood in the shade of one of the large gates to the unnamed mansion was a rather ominous shadow on their paths home, especially with the long bladed shape resting on his shoulder. What would've of been stranger to the rare jogger who ran past the wrought iron gates was the amulet hanging from his armoured hands.

It was a typical copper amulet, a single thick tear drop of some kind of metal about the same size as a snooker ball. However, the bareness of the single piece of metal was not what caught one jogger's eye was, instead of hanging directly downwards as it should it was nearly horizontal frozen in air and pointing straight up the drive to the large black mass of the mansion.

Andrew Wrathwell steadied the scythe and took a quick look at the amulet before tugging it back. It remained pointing up toward the house, the metal vibrating violently against the thick metal gloves as it tried to drag itself from his grasp. He sighed, the green eyes flashing in shadow as he pulled his dull brown coat tighter.

* * *

Integra was over the thick rug before the creature was aware she was gone, the door slamming in her wake as she plunged out into the well lit corridor. Out here, the air was thick and heady, a strange smell on the air which put her mind of tar or rock dust. It was a cloying stench which clung to the shadows and the corners where the drafts were unable to dispel it, it was that thick. She could see no one in the corridors, the stairs at the far end were empty and the other doors which stood amongst pictures of disapproving ancestors were shut, locked probably. Apart from his slimy brother, Arthur's family were few and far between, so here, the other rooms just sat and gathered dust, their richly furnished surfaces full of memories and spiders (who scuttled as you can probably guess, occasionally swearing at Walter who put the whole thing down to voices in his head)

She ran on, her bare feet sinking into the carpet as she felt her heart rise in her throat as she ran along the softly lit corridors. To find help perhaps, at the moment all she wished to do was put some distance between her and thing hiding under her bed. The door slammed shut behind, her door into her room where that thing was.

She took a quick look over her shoulder, the corridor behind was empty. The noise….just a tapestry blowing in the breeze as a draft caught it.

* * *

Wrathwell lifted the handset from the inside of the phone box and thumbed the dial. For this time in the morning, the woman at the exchange bureau who picked up immediately as he pushed the black plastic against his ear, was rather too alert for Andrew's liking; her expressionless tones show only some of her simpering happiness and possible caffeine addiction.

"Good Morning, which emergency service do you require?"

Wrathwell pulled a dog eared not from his pocket and quickly glanced over the spidery handwriting scribed over its surface.

"This is Wych saying the cauldron is about to bubble and boil over because the bogey is volatile"

There was click and rumble on the phone line. At the other end of the line, a handset was lifted and a rather weary voice echoed down the line, the voice of someone who'd been on the phones all night.

"This is Commander Mitchell; you're through to the Anti-Magi division of the British Army. Captain Andrew Wrathwell, your order has just come through and I am pleased to inform you…."

"Morning Bill!!"

"….inform you that your orders to move into the Hellsing Mansion are passed and allowed. You are dealing with a Scyre class creature by appearance though our informants report that there are several 'cauldrons' in the vicinity. You have your orders."

"Bye Bill…" The line snapped shut as Wrathwell was left with an earful of static. "…lovely chap…." He said quite loudly to no one in particular as he slotted the handset back into its cradle and pushed open the door from the phone box. He took scythe from its leaning place beside the red box and made a face at the dead body lying beside it, a hand froze perfectly at a right angle, a look of glee written across its face.

"…you do not touch the scythe."

The Raven cawed again as it glared down from its perch on top of the phone box as Wrathwell shouldered the scythe. Andrew quickly glanced up, his hands checking the securely held amulet locked away in the reinforced box on his belt.

"So quoth the Raven, Nevermore…" he murmured as the bird took flight, it a black rag on the freezing air as it passed away into the mist. "…and 'ere we go"

* * *

A floor board caused Integra to start round. Something had defiantly put its weight on the wooden board a few metres behind her, she'd felt it rise beneath her feet as something passed over it. Or at least, as if something had passed over, however the corridor behind was completely bare, no doors closed as something hid or ducked for cover. No shadows plagued her footsteps and there was defiantly no dark shape stuck to the roof. In fact, her peripheral vision was clear of shadows which usually were apparent with wandering round this house.

* * *

The monitor room hummed with life as Captain Gareth of the Hellsing Irregulars smoothed back his hair, his third cup of coffee rising to his lips as he squinted blearily at the several monitor screens tacked to the walls. Each showed a grainy feed of areas of the house, each a small window into each mundane routine in the Hellsing House.

In one, Arthur paced a cellar room, his hair a mess as several open books covered the surrounding desks. In another, the kitchen was completely empty, the staff gone home or sleeping elsewhere within the house. In the next, several black and white soldiers moved through grey rooms, their coffee cups full as they headed out on duty, while a smaller, tired looking crew moved to their beds, their heads heavy.

Something rattled down the corridor from the security booth. Gareth pushed himself back on his chair and took a quick glance, his coffee ignored as the well lit corridor beyond yielded no secrets. Behind his head, a grey coat flicked out of view on the main entrance monitor, a door slowly sliding closed behind.

He shook his head. It was just the old house playing tricks on his mind. This kind of place could do this too you. It was a true security nightmare; there were way too many secret rooms for Gareth's liking and too many forgotten passages where more then spiders scuttled, or so the men said. Even with the Vampyre threat, Gareth had always remained sceptical of the 'unknown', especially if it was whispered rumours just to scare the men. He closed the door with another shake of his head and sat down, turning back toward the monitors.

Arthur was still in the Cellar rooms, his head in a one extremely thick volume. The Kitchen and barracks corridor was empty and…..he tapped at the black screen labelled 'Helsing Apartments'….was out, again.

He sighed and leant back, taking a sip of coffee. Just another night….though he had a funny feeling that the gargoyle perched on the wall behind him hadn't been there before.

* * *

Integra felt something heavy tread very lightly on the floor behind. In her mind, she came to several conclusions at once as the thick stench of swamps and dark, damp places rolled about her. Either she was imagining things or the thing from under her bed was still following, or, due to the fact this smell had only occurred when she'd stepped out into the corridor that this thing behind was completely different to what waited for her. Well, there was nothing for it.

She took one last glance over her shoulder and felt the world shatter.

* * *

The thick mercury and copper end of the divining tool exploded from the reinforced metal case attached to the belt and imbedded itself in the ceiling directly above the Templar's head. Wrathwell craned his neck back as he felt his hair stand on end in the sudden crack in the air and the tang of ozone as the air became thick and heady.

"Ohhh Feck"

* * *

Thick bony arms erupted from empty air as huge talons, at least two inches across imbedded themselves in the well painted walls, the paintings peeling in the sudden onrush of heat and swamp gas which rose through the fold in the air. Air rippled in the freezing blast of air as the empty space divulged its contents. A vast ridge of bone and flesh more suited to be on a corpse found in a peat bog rose up, as a spinal column rose into view, the dark flesh seething as a head was pulled from the dampening carpet as water ran freely across its surface. A huge leering visage of many teeth and empty eye sockets which glowed with the balefires of a hundred howling souls.

It looked once human, but twisted into some huge malformed monster, the face nearing skeletal as the preserved flesh formed around the particularly evil grin as with sinuous, muscled arms, the creature pulled itself free.

"What tasty Mortal has Ole' Tommy Found now….." it spoke with a rasping, rumbling tone "…run, run, run little girl 'cause ole Tommy wants a little sport"

"What in God's name are you!!!?" Integra found her voice as the monster brought its leering face down to her level, his fangs always exposed round the lipless mouth.

"Me…." It seemed puzzled, its head twitching "…don't you remember ole' Tommy…." He laughed, the awful sound sounding more like the screams of drowning people "…Ole' Tommy Rawhead. I am your worst nightmares combined as ole' Tommy steals your souls and swallows them all up, because that is Ole' Tommy's favourite sport. The Thrice cursed monster who'll make you regret the day you looked….over….your……shoulder…." he paused for effect, swamp water gargling round his jaws "….three……times"

"Father said that the Monsters like you were just fairy tales."

"Oh how ole' Tommy's heart trembles just because some little missy tells ole' tommy that he doesn't exist…." The creature grinned mockingly "…let me tell you, little Missy, that……i……do"

Integra's blood boiled, even through the fear that paralyzed all her senses. "You dare assault this house, the House of the Helsing Family. The family who aims to keep monsters like you in HELL!!!"

One of the eye sockets squinted as the swamp preserved skin sagged downwards. "Say what….Ole' Tommy could have sworn he just heard you refer to yourself as Helsing…" he tapped a talon against his chin as if in thought "…that name seems very familiar to ole' Tommy."

"Then do you fear our legacy beast!!?"

Unlike the fear, the Helsing name induced in most vampire freaks, the monster screamed with laughter as swamp water spilled from the thing's crevices. She started back, her heart seizing as the two taloned arms passed above her, the leering jaws of Ole' Tommy Rawhead peeled back as he smiled, horrifically.

"But Ole' Tommy has one little detail which make him a bit different. You see…." He leant forward, the overwhelming smell of fish rolling over Integra as he whispered "…I hate to break it too you…I…..am…..not…..a……vampire"

She was running, her hair casting out behind as the monster cackled behind her…

"RUN!!!! RUN!!! RUN LITTLE GIRL!!!! AS FAST AS YOU CAN……BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER OUT RUN OLE' TOMMY ON A HUNT!!!!!!..." he was cackling as he reached down to swipe at the sprinting child. "….RUN!!! THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT WHEEE!!!!! WHEEEEE!!!! ALL THE WAY HOME TO OLE' TOMMY!!!!"

She fell as rotting flesh shattered the floor behind her, the lights passing by above her head as she caught her head on a carved leg of an old stool. Her glasses clattered away as the blurred shape of Tommy Rawhead reared up, the arm a warped spectre on her blurry vision, green fire spewing from the holes in its preserved brown flesh as it dropped for the killing blow.

"My….my……" The arm froze, through her unfocused eyes; she could see the monster jerk in mid strike. "…you've gotten big, what 'av you been eating?"

Old Tommy growled; the arm dropping as he stepped over the body of dazed girl, his face breaking into a snarl as the inane grin was robbed from his features.

Wrathwell's face was set in a rather grim smile, his eyes half closed as he rested the scythe on the top of his boot. Rawhead snarled and lowered his head down to the soldier's level, the thick spine rising above his head.

"Fish and a hint of souls…." Wrathwell wrinkled his nose "…not like you. I remember when you never ate fish and always hunted souls. Where hast thy honour gone, beast? Weren't you supposed to be the one no one ever escaped from…."

"Now what are you doin' pushin' in on Ole' Tommy's fun?"

"And there you are, referring to yourself in the third person yet again"

The monster shrieked, the wind howling from its jaw's was fetid and flem filled, Wrathwell squinted as the monster finished, the Bogeyman spreading his arms out, his shadow becoming even more nightmarish as swamp gas and eldritch lighting boiled around every crevice.

"Now, really, that's not going to do anything to improve your situation…" the Templar said, brushing a large string of spittle from his coat with a look of disgust. "…this can go two ways. Either you leave now or die"

"Tell me puny man, what do you have that Ole' Tommy would be afraid of!!?Oh bugge…"

There was a 'zing', a sublime hiss of metal on air and a dull, organic thud as something heavy rolled away. Integra was aware of a strong stench of Marl before the room fell silent. A floor board creaked and she found a rough hand planting her glasses on the end of her nose. She took the glasses clumsily placed and peered up.

The scythe dripped with swamp water as across the floor, the same, foul smelling water drained into the carpet. Walter was not going to be happy.

Andrew drew the charm chords from a pocket and checked the several silver disks. None glowed blue like last time on that cold Norwegian mountain top, even if they were covered in swamp water. He looked down at the small girl, his scythe leaning back against his shoulder as he checked the amulet. It was still ringing but instead of its once direct pull, the cord was spiralling in his hand, the head of the tear shaped amulet seeming to be struggling to find anything.

"Tommy Rawhead…." Wrathwell paused as behind him, Integra pulled herself to her feet, the white nightdress now stained with brackish water. She was shivering, the water was freezing and stank of fish and sulphur "….swamp daemon of some power. Could be summoned to hunt and kill entire families for his own selfish pleasure. He can fit himself into any space, within creases in time, because no one can outrun Ole' Tommy Rawhead…."

He was talking to no one in particular as he pulled a red lollypop from his pocket and pulled the wrapper off before sticking it into his mouth. Integra taking one shaky glance down the corridor behind them.

"…sadly, he didn't always expect the houses of olde he went to be guarded by several Witchfinder Generals and he was forced back again and again because you can see guys like that coming a mile off. Now, this was too brutal to be a summoning. He probably found a random hole and came a calling. There is little of interest within this house to the Fey. Vampire hunters are merely mortal with little magical trappings to be a beacon to them."

He paused, taking a quick look at the half frozen child, whilst running a finger along the well carved haft of the scythe.

"And Ole' Tommy did not know that we have a magical detector spread across most of London and the surrounding counties…he really didn't think this one through…" he scratched an itch on the side of his nose "…defiantly not a purposeful haunting…However…."

There was a quiet whimper behind him as Andrew let a long breath, his hand freezing on the haft as he balled his fist.

"…the girl is of interest because she can see Fey. She holds the third eye which probably would explain why Tommy found her first; she was basically a shining beacon to him in the midst of the Veil. But then, he wasn't the only one because old Rawhead doesn't work alone."

The scythe blasted back, imbedding itself in the rotting rib cage of Bloody Bones, the monster beneath the shadow and sent the thing falling backward. Integra broke from its grasp where she'd been seized and ran for the folds of the Templar's coat as Wrathwell turned to face the creature.

It was basically one vast skeleton with the head of large deer. Bloody antlers erupted from its yellowing skull as the empty eye sockets seemed to go on into the black. It was clear to see the gaps between the bones, the feet digging fabric from the carpet as the serrated claws cut slithers of wood from the wall. Unlike the walking corpse of Rawhead, Bloody Bones was defiantly very dead, every bone, seemingly made up of many different creatures, rattled with some unholy life, each end crudely bound together with thick, blood soaked ropes.

Wrathwell pushed the girl behind him and brought the scythe across his chest, his green eyes flashing. For some, it would have been hard to face such a monstrosity. The entire being appeared to be made up of hundreds of different bones, where human skulls leered down at the monster's opponent amongst bull heads and horse skulls. The spine seemed to be made up of several human rib cages, all facing inward to give it some impression of structure. It look more as though it had been roughly stitched together by some daemonic, half blind carpenter, the ropes binding it in place were wearing into the bone as the onlookers looked on, small shards falling away while they watched.

That aside, it seemed to causing the monster little discomfort, the deer head rising up as the fangs and misplaced molars of the jaws worked together, little sound been produced but the grinding of bones.

"Didn't you have bull's head last time…?" Wrathwell yelled over the racket as Bloody Bones shambled forward "…guess so…."

It took Aries two shots before the monster fell to its knees, the skull shattering as the bones disintegrated into nothingness, sending a fine dusty across the floor. Wrathwell didn't even move as the two thick shells ejected, his face grim.

"Awfully tenacious and extremely terrifying, but in the end, completely useless and very, very fragile against fire arms. I mean, I used a sword last time, demolished half of Blackfriars in the process and, c'mon, two shots, not even Iron bullets." He sighed, almost disappointed as he reloaded.

He bent over as he checked the large pistol, fishing a fist sized bone shard from the floor and with little thought, handed the small girl the macabre object.

"Little souvenir for you, girly…." She didn't say anything, just stared, open mouthed as her head rose up from the bone shard to look at him before falling back to stare at the horrific object. "…are you asking what you should do with it. Well, don't look at me; maybe make it into a broach or something…" He tousled her hair and swept by, the scythe resting on his shoulder as he holstered the pistol. "…it would look good as a crucifix perhaps, its good luck to have one of those shards. Especially hung around your neck. It would be very useful to vampire hunters too; usually the freaks can't stand the sight of it"

Integra turned to see him drop down the stairs, the last chance of sleep stealing away from her as she watched the brown coat and large war scythe dropping out of view with Wrathwell's last words echoing her ears.

"Who are you……?"

The creak of footsteps on the stairs stopped before Wrathwell rose back into view.

"My name is not of Importance…." He stopped, as if a little awkward about something he was about to say "…do you have any idea where the kitchen is?"

Integra scuttled forward, tucking the large bone shard away as she ran, her glasses smudge and her face pale as the freezing water gripped her frame. Though with the tiniest glimmer of relief….

High above, the Raven cleaned its beak on a large stone bust stuck to the wall and cawed loudly. It had been there for some time, it had listened to Wrathwell's conversation and its beady eyes continued to glare along the corridor as its feathers bristled. It twitched, its tiny mind a much vaster intellect then first thought. It cracked open its beak and with a rasp and chuckle quothed....

"Nevermore!!"

Wrathwell was busy raiding the fridge as Integra pulled herself into a chair beside the large Aga which rested in one smoky corner of the kitchen. In the blessed heat, the swamp water was ….

"Oooh, that looks nice ham"

…steaming as it dried. She was still shivering as the adrenaline let her system. She could still see Rawhead's face and feel the bare bone around her neck of Bloody Bones. They would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life, their beings still out there and still….

"Cheese!!!"

…very malignant. Her saviour referred to them as if they'd been alive for a great amount of time. It was even as if they held some sentiment to the large man who stood, his head in a large freezer at the far end of the room.

Andrew pushed a large bread loaf onto the side and took a bread knife from the side. Lit by the soft lights and glow of the open Aga door, he cut two slices and laid them flat before dropping a thick slice of ham and Walter's prize edam onto the top. He dropped the other slice on top and scooped it onto a plate before taking a seat. Opposite, Integra looked on as he raised the sandwich to his lips and opened his jaws to take a bite.

"So who are you?" Wrathwell sighed loudly and lowered the sandwich.

"My name is Captain Wrathwell if you must know."

"And who do you work for…"

"Who says I work for anyone…"

"Because obviously you came into this house for one purpose as if you were following orders"

Wrathwell stirred the sandwich on its plate,

"You're very clever for a seven year old…." She nodded, "…very well. I am a Knight Templar…" she looked confused "…Stonemason…." She still looked nonplussed, the eyes behind the glasses were still dilated, the fear not quite gone "…Witchhunter…general good guy"

She still didn't quite understand, but he guessed it must be like teaching a 5 year old quantum physics. As she sat there, quivering, it was easy to see how been introduced to 'other worlds' was strain enough on young minds let alone the 'introduction' that little girl had gone through that night. Still, he took a bite at that point, maybe she had a little more a inkling then he first thought. She'd spoken to Rawhead with such power without been drunk or wetting herself in the process. Or dying, for that matter. He paused, the scythe sticking out behind the chair as the single raven perched atop a mantle piece above the Aga. Maybe one little foray into his world wouldn't hurt.

"Tell me, Integra Helsing…" he took another bite, the plastic taste of the Edam rolling round and round inside his mouth "…do you like stories?"

She nodded, silently and demurely as she gathered her hands in her lap, her thumbs resting against the bloody shard of bone she'd kept with her, the bear always beside her.

"Well, it was one cold night in 1945 and at that point in time there was a war going on…"

She raised an eyebrow "…not just a stupid kid then…" Wrathwell backpedalled mentally "…well, it was the closing stages of World War Two and over the Black Forest, a single Lancaster Bomber was flying on a rather dark mission…..where two men stood on a bridge and one said to the other 'it was a dark and windy night, two men sat on a bridge…"the child folded her arms and fixed the Templar with a intense stare "…ok, not funny, deadly serious, right….." he took another bite "…but that dark mission had a rather dark objective….but aside from that, something of interest happened a few days before at one rather remote Scottish Castle"

* * *

Trivia - Monster Files. Entry Scyre 5 and 7

* * *

Bloody Bones – A shambling mess of bone made from disturbed graves and bodies buried below Yew Trees. This creature is held together by cursed rope. However, this is a rapidly failing bogeyman having little protection against modern weapons. Previously, it was very hard to banish Bloody Bones and one Knight Captain Wrathwell demolished half of Blackfriars in the 1850's when the monster appeared once again after a vast mass grave was uncovered.

Tommy Rawhead – Old Victorian Bogeyman who was a persistent hunter through all the years and stole many children over the years, killed entire families and was the bane of the templar for many a year until one Knight Captain was employed by Queen Elizabeth the First to deal with the threat. He was held back however by the church. Being the 15 hundreds, religion was all the rage and when the church found that Old Tommy, who'd slaughtered most of a village in one attack when a nearby landowner traded his daughter's soul for the Monster's services, couldn't be hurt by Christian blessed weaponry. A very, very, very, very, very, very sharp blade was called for, and the man that wielded it. One Knight Captain Wrathwell.


	11. Forces of the Wyre

I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.

At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government-every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation.

The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.

Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail.

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France,  
**we shall fight**on the seas and oceans,  
**we shall fight**with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be,  
**we shall fight on the beaches,**  
**we shall fight**on the landing grounds,  
**we shall fight**in the fields and in the streets,  
**we shall fight** in the hills;  
**we shall never surrender**, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

Winston Churchill, 4th June 1940

* * *

The Cold Scottish wind is cutting at the best of times….

The castle was a warped ruin on the precipice which looked over the desolate loch. From its dead windows, rooks cawed and dead trees long grown into the walls of dark stone shook in the early morning breeze. The tall main tower rose high above the ruined walls, the age worn battlements perforated like a rotting corpse. No ivy grew along its walls, though rabbits frolicked among the fallen stones, their burrows running deep beneath the walls.

A single row boat lay abandoned on the beach, the oars leaving marks in the shale, deep foot prints visible where someone had dragged the boat ashore. They then moved away from the boat, the deep shale having some effect on the passage of the individual, as he made his way up the beach.

Dark cloth fluttered from one of the door arches as Renfield mounted the long sweeping steps to the keep; his head tilting back to admire the carved stone gargoyles cut into the shape of wolves which were leering down at the other occupants of the tower. Men and women, each bearing the signs of fatigue, their hair streaked with grey paused beneath the black stones, each silent as Renfield approached. They were all clad in the same dark brown cloaks, their faces light though hard and oh so cold.

Renfield paused beneath the arch, arching his head back as he took in the lone carved stone wolf head which watched him from the arch's high point, its eyes picked out in two pieces of jade. It almost seemed wise; the snout was not etched into a snarl and was bereft of any expression of anger. Pure peace and serenity was the only thing that lone grey wolf truly expressed.

The Vast Irish Wolfhound waiting beside the door yipped as he approached, the huge tail stirring the dust at its feet where it sat. It didn't move however, not leaving its lonely vigil. Renfield patted it on the head as he passed, noting the brown eyes watching him in an almost human like way before dropping back to stare at the sloping steps.

"You are late, Alfred" the elfin features of Lucy Renfield came into view, her trim figure perched on top of a large pillar of rock. Her pitch black tresses were spotted with grey flecks; the many changes to her wolf form had finally begun to take effect, even if the bags below her eyes were covered with makeup. There were others too, lounging on low rocks, some were ancient and dark, their true nature making their faces haggard and wolfish. Others were quite young, their faces defined and still bearing some signs of youth, even if a Wyrewolf's life span went far beyond that of any human.

There were no children however, their weakness labelled them as prey and prey alone, they did have the iron will to take the mantle of the Wolves just yet. The youth of the group seemed almost unkempt, embracing their wolfish desires to satiate their own needs and leaving the pack behind with such delusions of grandeur and power. And then were the middle age, only 30 years or over, that was around two hundred in human years. These were of such calibre where they were still in control and not stricken mad by their own curse or blood-rite. They dressed in black, coats neatly tied and hair perfect unlike the messy youth and the wolfish elders. They stood among the stones, pure and quiet of soul and face, their hair grey or nearing that. It was what all the wolves of old had strived for, to be at peace with the beast within as some put, unlike the new upstarts which existed in the world today. There were too many new ideas, too many new thoughts which had corrupted the old ways and sent most into solitude.

Here within the ruined walls however, the new world seemed a world away. Renfield embraced his sister, holding her to him for a second before releasing.

"Have the Elders arrived?" Renfield murmured as he turned to acknowledge the other members of the pack.

"Old Man Vagner has never left this place…" Lucy's broader Scottish accent rang true as she spoke, any inheritance to her brother's softer tones non apparent. "…and he wants to see you personally."

"Now? Even before the Pack is fully assembled"

She nodded, her eyes hooded as she glanced nervously round the cold stones, her eyes flicking to each youth and each warped and haggard elder.

"The others…..they grow restless at your arrival, their patience is wearing thin."

"Let them wait…" Renfield lowered his head, his unruly mop of white hair falling down over his eyes even though his vision remained fixed on the others "…though the loyal to the pack, do they feel the same way?"

"Maury still has some sway…" Lucy murmured, signalling toward a tall, grey haired woman leaning on a corner stone several metres away "…but there are rumblings among the other families, murmurs of dissent which I and old man Vagner are unable to quell. But just for you brother….Fernir…" she paused as she grasped his arm powerfully as she used his childhood nickname "…the Renfield Clan has your back and you would do well to believe in us."

Renfield smiled grimly, a rare expression of affection and turned to leave, his large brown catching the breeze. He left the others behind, passing into the still standing sections of the castle. High above, the rooks flew, cawing loudly to each others as the Wyrewolf strode on below between the pillars and fallen battlements, a clear path cut among the fallen rocks until, broken only by a small doorway in the path, he stepped into a wide space.

Amidst the stone walls, a courtyard waited him beyond the arch. Plants grew in the shelter of the tall walls split into raised beds and a small lawn where a deck chair rested, an open book resting on brightly coloured cloth. Between each neat section a gravel path wove its way to a small metal studded door dug into the opposite wall. Beside it, a single glass paned window lit the vegetables growing up against the side of the house and a stone water trough which bubbled from some spring. And there, resting on the cobbles was a pair of large, hobnailed boots.

Renfield paused by the door, reaching for his boot laces. It was custom, for old man Vagner, to take boots off when entering his home, though that was more a tradition on Vagner's part. The old wolf had a thing for cleanliness. He gripped the thick iron handle and pushed on into the small, softly lit entrance hall of the Elder's quarters. It was covered with coats, wax jackets mainly, each suspended from a rough wood peg. Alfred pushed among them, making for the door at the end of the small space. They reeked of gun smoke and heather moorland, a pass time of the elder's. From each peg hung a flat cap, the tweed material it was made of studded with a single broach of raven plumes.

The large Irish wolfhound bounded from its bed as Alfred stepped into the warm space beyond. Throughout the arched chamber, candles glowed where the small square windows couldn't illuminate and pictures hung, their rich colours spreading vibrancy across the walls.

Alfred dug his feet into the thick carpet and remembered when his parents had first brought him to meet Vagner, around two hundred years ago. The old Wolf had been old then, his lined face only broken by the eternally twinkling eyes which tore the attention away from time's own ravages. However, even without his youthful appearance, Vagner had refused to curl up like most of the ancients and go live his life in solitude. His was a Laird, a local hero to most mortals. Even those who knew his darker, wolfish nature had always respected the old man, even if he insisted on staying in this dilapidated old ruin, a place where most tourists were warned to avoid.

Renfield ruffled the head of the slavering mass of dog and patted its back as he passed. Before him, a fire roared, a large pine log spitting and crackling. There was chair with its back to him, its beautifully carved surfaces running with deer and wolves in close pursuit as two knights in armour guarded the rear legs, their helmeted heads eternally frozen in wooden watchfulness.

A pair of feet shifted before the fire, the chair's occupant raising a single dram of whiskey to their lips as a gnarled hand fell from the chair's arm, summoning the large grey-haired hound to the chair's side with a click of its fingers.

"So how long has it been, Alfred?" Vagner spoke with a rasping Scottish accent. Renfield could still hear the bark in the Elder's tone as he approached, pausing before the fire.

"Ten years"

Vagner was slumped in his chair, the tweed shirt he wore open to expose his narrow chest covered by a thick woollen vest. His face was lined with age, his nose hooked as long grey side burns gave him an almost wolfish appearance. His eyes, as ever twinkled stared into the fire, his whisky hanging from his long fingers. Panting, the dog nudged his elbow with his nose and sat down beside the chair, rumbling happily when the old man placed a hand on its wide skull.

"It is too long Renfield…" the old wolf didn't turn "…you must return more often. I was beginning to worry what had happened to you in all these years…."

"Sir….I…."

"No buts pup…." The elder didn't even look up "…you may forget your roots if you leave for such long periods of time. We are not blessed with the best of memories and seeing the youth of today, I thought you'd gone feral"

"Sorry, Elder…." Renfield too stared into the fire, it was useless trying to catch the Old man's eye "….I just lost track"

Vagner sighed "…that is an excuse an old man, such as myself would use. You are still young, Renfield…" the dog yawned loudly as Vagner scratched behind its ears "…let us not forget your roots, your family lest it be the end. You are one of the few…"

"Don't, old man…"

"….don't Old Man me, Pup….you are one of the few who can draw authority to the pack, however…." He took another sip of whisky "…it would seem that there are old murmurs from the Old Kingdoms and that worries me…"

Renfield nodded grimly, his own hard face never breaking his gaze with the fire.

"…I fear that when I eventually hand the pack to you, my boy…that it will be to lead it to war. You know it's coming….don't you."

"I do, Laird."

"The Vampires can sense it; the monsters who live in the world can feel it coming and those who can see beyond can feel its dread footsteps. And the Templar?"

"They are all very much aware of what we speed toward, though the less astute do not see it."

"In 60 years it will be so, Renfield. They are waiting for a suitable hole and they will be through."

"Then so be it..." The wolf, the man murmured. "…But for now, there are important matters to discuss"

"The war will end, this year in fact…" the old man yawned loudly, exposing large canines "…Hitler's Germany is flawed and we are all pushing for a close even now, though the Nazis' haven't shown their last card which will decide all."

"The Spheres I expect, they've been readying them since the beginning, testing them. That portal in Norway was just a test, just to see if it was capable of. And they created a wisp, a Wisp commune in fact of little power."

"It is just child's play. They believe they can create Freaks to be an invincible army, they also believe that if they lose, in one ditch attempt, they can wipe us off the face of the earth. It just seems so selfish…"Vagner paused, linking his fingers as the dog beside him licked contentedly at his discarded whiskey glass. "…but dangerous none the less. Though I doubt they'll be able to open a portal of any substance, they will, obviously weaken the veil and release what ever Fey wish to wage war on us. But Renfield…." His face softened "…without such responsibility weighing down on you, how are you?"

"I am fine, Elder…"

"Your sister worries about you terribly. She wants to see you more but after your brother….."

Renfield felt the bones in his left hand break as he clenched his fist at that word. Immediately, he felt the cloying cold of his skin, bone and muscle regenerating as the Elder looked away from the fire for the first time and stared up into the man's stony features.

"You still hunt him for his sins, Noble Wolf…." He looked back into the fire "…you ripped out his tongue for his crimes and yet you still wish to take his life. I truly believe you have been consumed by hatred against him, wherever he is…."

"He deserves my fangs around his throat…." Renfield snarled, his eyes darkening "…after all he did, for what he stole from me…."

"Do not let it consume. Such a dark path will only lead to madness and I do not care for watching you descend from sanity."

"My sanity…." The wolf spat "…will be saved by his death. For him to be alive when…"

He stopped, the room darkening as the dog on the floor beside the Elder's chair whined loudly. Outside, the murmur of voices could be easily heard as the others moved toward the Elder's quarters. Vagner sighed, his white coarse hair been pushed aside as he ran a rough hand through it. Beside him, Renfield watched the flames blaze in the hearth and took a long, deep breath.

"The pack will always have you…." The wolf rose from his chair, his tall form only reaching the height of Renfield's chin "…but please, Pup, Fernir, Alfred…don't lose yourself in your hatred…." He patted the wolf on the arm as Renfield turned back to the fire, leaning closely to the laughing, chattering flames "…now the others, they want to find what we are doing next. Hogmanay is upon us, young one…." He turned as he took a thick tweed jacket from a table "…I do hope you will not spend it alone."

* * *

The thunder of jack boots echoed through the low sandstone halls as shouted orders broke through the thin walls of Holmwood's room. He stirred, a lazy hand rising up to brush the stray blond hair out his vision. It took him some time to pull himself upright, the heavy set engineer yawning loudly as he scratched at his thick beard. The many days and nights patrolling the roof tops and streets of London had little time for him to shave.

Or tidy up for that matter, He staggered from the ruins of his bed, disturbing the remains of several metal devices scattered across the floor and made a face in the mirror. His room was a rather small affair; most of his workspace was reserved for the labs, a wide space several storeys deep where each work area was confined to large metal gantries to all dangerous fluids to pour away to the drains on the bottom floor. Here, his room was covered with technical drawings and old posters of West End Musicals. Charlie Chaplin, his hat and cane as ever in place stared down demurely from one of the walls. One of Holmwood's favourites, the black and white movie star was always in place, as ever, much to Marian's amusement with her vast collection of centrefolds.

He pulled on a loose cloth jerkin and pulled a leather belt tight around his baggy green felt trousers.

The corridor was full of soldiers, their boots slamming hard into the marble floors as they hurried to guard positions or waiting aircraft. Each bore the same determined expression, the same dead eyed glare as they stormed past, each ignoring the short man waiting just inside his chamber door. Holmwood sighed, probably a good time to go and find some chainmail.

* * *

Harker pulled the last piece of her armour into position and allowed her red hair to spill about her form. She could feel it receding into her scalp as her form shifted, the nearly waist length red cascade pulling up toward a more combat friendly length. It was slightly restricted by the mask, but so be it, she'd got used to the cloying, burning sensation of the iron against her skin a long time ago. That was of little interest to her now, she thought as she pulled on one leather glove at a time.

The armoury was in an uproar at this time of morning as heavily armoured 50th Columnists pulled on their own steel and ceramic armour plate and chain mail, slotting visors into position as on gantries set high above, Captains of various squads barked orders and signalled to others to hurry up. There was fervour among the soldiers, some shivered with blood lust as they each extracted their swords from holders beside their lockers and primed their rifles for use. Others were more at peace, carefully checking their weapons for rust of something which would restrict them working properly, their movements quick though controlled.

They all wore the green tan felt uniforms of the British Army. Held in place by thick leather belts however, were thick armour plates which were carved with a multitude of runes and graffiti, obviously an addition by the soldier's themselves to make it appear more personalised.

Harker reached a gloved hand into her own locker and extracted her jumble of knives and swords, running a green eye over each blade to check for nicks and cracks in the nearly peerless blade. Seeing nothing, she strung the shorter two of the three blades onto her waist, each handle facing outwards before running the thin stiletto blade down the arch of her spine into the scabbard built into the back of the black leather.

Tossing her now neck length hair, the elf ran a finger across the front of her heavily reinforced locker, a long digits leaving a trailing, looping path of frost behind it before she pulled her fingers away. The sealing ward glowed for a split second before disappearing from view.

Happy, Harker was gone, a thin lithe shape flickering through the corridors dancing sinuously between the hurrying soldiers.

* * *

The scythe made a dull humming in the air as Wrathwell flowed through the room. Already, perspiration was running down his face as the thick haft of 'Old Glory' roared with life, the wind whistling down each cut, each long sigil. He turned on his heel, the leather padding of the training mats squeaking as he turned was the only other noise. Around him, on the stone walls, the candles were flickering as the massively sharp blade passed by.

He was dressed in chain mail, the heavy chain held in place by several leather belts strapped about his form. The rest of his armour, the brown tan of his uniform was resting in the corner along with his carved breast plate, the symbol of the dragon emblazoned clearly on its surface. Beside that, littering a large bench beside the one small door in the room was a sequence of metal plates.

There was a soft knock on the door and the pale features of Lyra Seward came into view. Most people could easily show their emotions through facial expressions. Lyra seemed to manage to do that and more. She opened the door apologetically, seemingly able to transmit body language to whole new heights.

Wrathwell paused in his routine, hooking the scythe behind his back. Immediately, the candles lighting the room stopped flickering, the flames undisturbed by the moving blade or otherwise.

"Sir, we have orders to mobilise…" she tossed a large file to him "…this just came through from the War Office. They want us on a plane and on our way to Germany. The Allies are making one ditch attempt to push Hitler's Germany off their rather unstable pedestal for good"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

(Footnote; Templars' usually class themselves as under no national jurisdiction and therefore refer to Britain and their Allies as, the Allies. Their own concerns are their own, just like the Templar. However, most show some loyalty to Britain and will fight for Queen and Country, hence their involvement in the War. Though with such fighting skills, it is rumoured that if the Templar joined the war, it would have been over in a year, not in six. However, that was deemed unfair and the entire Templar force was only mobilised when the Nazi Occult Research division reared their ugly heads above the parapet and individuals with a certain magical tendency were called in where Men alone would fail. Amazingly enough this is first time the entire Templar force has even been fully mobilized)

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Are the Russians pushing too?"

"The Nightwatch were dropped into the fray last night and Top Brass thought it would be a little sporting if they put in our top players as well"

"I guess that means us…." Wrathwell touched the Warded Wax seal and split the red cord, the string coming away in his hands as the package opened. Pictures and files spilled out, black and white images of a rather fat man talking with one tall captain by appearances, each dressed in Nazi Uniforms and rather uncomfortable smirks. Well, at least the taller of the two would if he didn't have the expressional capacity of a door knob, his nose buried deep in the high collar of the Nazi Greatcoat he wore. Not too dissimilar to Lyra's own. Andrew raised an eyebrow and fixed his lieutenant with gauging look. She was clearly ready to be deployed, her large eyes never leaving his face as her fingers tightly gripped the clipboard she had clamped to her chest.

"Yes, Sir. Command has also requested that all restrictions have full permission to be released…." Wrathwell's face split into a rather nasty grin "…as soon as the enemy is engaged and sufficient data is gathered."

The evil grin dropped from his face as she finished speaking, a slight look of disappointment knocking aside the rather macabre display of ambition.

"What are our order's, Sir?"

He leant the scythe beside his armour and pulled on the thick felt jacket, doing up the buttons as he did. He snapped the breast plate into place and strung the pauldrons from his shoulders, tightening the holding belts as he did, the chainmail causing his already large form to bulk up even further.

"Well, I think it's wise we brought a little hell to these Nazi scum. I can't stand little men who believe they can rule the world or destroy it. I cannot stand little Warmongers and their menagerie of freaks and I cannot stand Vampires especially ones with the will to destroy and see it a sufficient enough slaughter to ditch their honourable, solitary habits to pursue a more horribly human goal…"

He hefted the War Scythe. Within Lyra's peripheral vision, black rags fluttered as the candles each began to flutter violent.

"…so what's it going to be, Lieutenant Seward? Are we going to watch the Reds get all the glory or are we going to bring hell and heaven crashing down on these wankers?"

"Let's bring them hell, sir!!"

"Right you are…." Wrathwell leant the scythe over his shoulder and signalled to the large raven perched over their heads on a lighting bracket "…lets hear them scream at the feel of our jackboots against their throats"

* * *

The thundering of fists on the door had Arthur Helsing falling from sleeps soft arms and tumbling down onto the floor, bottles of whisky clattering under his heavy weight. His shirt was stained with last night's affair and there appeared to be a female form shifting the bed in the adjoining room.

"Alright, alright…." He swore loudly as he caught his toe on a nearby table.

Through blurry eyes he pulled himself across the mess of his apartment, disturbing books as he scrabbled for the door handle. The hard knock came again as the young man felt his hangover taking a board with nails in it to the inside of his head and groaned.

"Alright….Jesus Christ!! Why the hell are you knocking so early!!?"

The door opened, giving the man a face full of cold morning permeated by the faint smell of brimstone and ozone. Sir Winslow looked up from his pocket watch and gave Arthur's dishevelled form with a look of distaste.

"It is ten o'clock in the morning, Arthur. And after sending a child to Germany to finish this little vampire incident, I would of expected you to be up a little earlier, nary that. Not been asleep at all"

There was a defiantly feminine groan from the other room. Winslow's moustache twitched as he narrowed his eyes, his neatly parted grey streaked black hair matching his well trimmed moustache as usual.

"Well, not asleep I guess, more of a lack of awareness I believe…" Winslow stirred his cane as behind him, the corridor was not as empty as Arthur hoped. There, in full army uniform, stood another a man. He was very thin, his features well pronounced as he glanced around the rigidly. However, unlike the usual green tan of the British forces, he wore a dark brown, a large peaked officer's cap pulled down over his dark brown hair. He had a very thin face, his nose hooked and long which matched his thin form. From his shoulders downward on his left arm, several thick metal plates were attached, their surfaces carved with several thorny looking runes.

"Arthur, I have to inform you that I am not your personal wake up call and I must insist you get ready. Sir Islands has requested a quickly briefing to go over the last push especially after you sent your butler to deal with the Nazi facility in Warsaw…" he raised an eyebrow "…and a rather intriguing black box which looked a lot like a coffin I do believe was observed to being loaded onto that transport plane as well."

"How did you…..?"

Winslow tapped a silver cane, an object Arthur hadn't been aware of until that point, his hands now full of the once non present object.

"But we don't want sir Islands to learn about that do we?"

Arthur tried to muster his most threatening tone, even though it made him feel slightly sick. "Is that a threat, Winslow"

"No, merely an observation, it gains me nothing or is not a loss to me if he finds out so, in truth, I don't care. However, it isn't the only thing I'm avoiding telling the other Roundtable members, something I hope you will keep to yourself"

Arthur felt the room surge slightly as lack of sleep and major alcohol consumption finally got to his stomach.

"….and that is?"

"That the Knight Templar were mobilized this morning"

Arthur felt his stomach sink like a lead balloon, putting it down to fear rather than the hangover.

"How many?"

"All of them…..I believe that it is time we stuck our oar in as my men like to say."

* * *

The wolves' howls echoed across the valley as Renfield strolled along the path leading back into the village, the row boat left behind. Not one to stay with crowds, the wolf had left the celebrations behind and let his Pack Brothers and Sisters dance and sing and drink without him. It should be a time of great joy but memories of the ruptured skies above London and drone of bombers, killing all without discriminating. The Nazi vampires who feasted on the dead during battle and the splatter of blood which stained the clouds and the ground below.

To celebrate now? Too early, perhaps after the war had finished, there would be time for him to sit back with a whisky and watch the water on the loch. For now, however…

Renfield squinted with lazy eyes as stepped off the path onto the rough gravel track which ran down to the tiny village at the foot of the loch. Opposite the path opening, a black, unmarked staff car was waiting. Leaning against the front, nearest door, Marian Westenra looked up from her lighter as she lit another cigarette and fixed the wolf with a beady eye.

"What are you doing here?" Renfield barked, his face flushing as the sniper raised her head, her white hair now thinly braided.

"I came to collect you…." Renfield raised an eyebrow "…Ok, Wrathwell had us draw straws…." Marian stirred and pulled herself upright, careful not to mark the car "…Andrew wants us all back to Air Field"

"Why, are we dealing with another Nazi summoned Cauldron?"

Marian shook her head, the white braids rippling round her head as she moved.

"No, not this time…" a rather evil grin stole over her face "…we're going to war."

* * *

Glossary

50th Columnists;

A militant arm of the Knights Templar. Men and Woman recruited from the Wrens and the British Special Forces are called upon to serve as guards and bolster fire teams. Unlike rank and file soldiers, the Columnists are very individualistic. They follow orders and stick in small squads but rely heavily on self modified gear and equipment to get the job done. Fighting alongside the Templar forces on many occasions, the Mortals are surprisingly ruthless in carrying out their missions which has earned some respect from the Templar.

They are easily recognised by their black or dark brown armour, usually covered with thick ceramic plates, their faces blocked out with large gas masks. In more recent times they've taken to wearing black body armour with trench coats underneath, giving the armour 'coat tails'. Also, to give a slight feeling of fear, most wear goggles which glow orange, very much like the vampire red eye tint when light doesn't shine directly upon it. This has also meant that several of the 50th, mainly the sergeants paint large white skulls or fangs on the face plates.

They are referred to a Hells Legion by several surviving Nazis who were able to escape their battles. They have a strong aptitude for combat situations, though few in number and can deal with many magical and fey creatures which may appear. As military technology is also more advanced in the late 20th century, they're also known to field many prototype weapons due to their involvement with the Templar, Arcane Weapons Division along with some, old fashioned, sometimes medieval weaponry.


	12. The Rise of the Wintersmith

Berlin was a dark city that night. From the once bright streets, a true pall of fear hung over the populace as, confined to their homes, the Germanic public watched in fear as their empire fell. In each home, the lights were dimmed as entire families clustered round radios, the propaganda silenced as the Government collapsed, the Furher, gone.

The vast form of the Zepplin hung high above the dark city, its many windows blazing with light as search lights panned over the city streets far below. It was massive in size, dwarfing some of the largest royal navy frigates in its size, the grey coloured fabric and gondola adorned with swastikas and the straight red German empirical flags making it seem even more ominous. Through the thick plate glass of the gondola bridge window, pilots were lit by the glow of their workstations as behind them, engineers sprinted across the well lit metal planking of the deck and the large two headed eagle carved into the floor.

From her seat on the bridge, the muscled form of Kommandent Zorin Blitz shifted within the tight, grey German uniform as she linked her fingers both her golden eyes fixed directly on the night sky directly in front of the zeppelin windows. She ran a tongue over her sharp canines, impatient, her fingers itching for the large scythe waiting at her side. Just a little bloodshed would tide her over, not this endless waiting.

To the Captain who waited at her elbow, she was a thing of terrible beauty. She'd always been blessed with a fine, porcelain face and perfect features beneath the tied back blonde hair. It had made most the men lust for her, even if behind that perfect face lurked something……darker.

For most, the form of their Kommnadent was one of desire, to others it was thing of fear. The pure cruelty which lingered behind those eyes could turn mens' minds and souls. A fear illusionist, the SS found her services to be of great value and when involved in the torture of suspects, she was highly sought after, digging deep into the weaks' minds and destroying them, entirely. She would relive all their fears, their pains and turn it back on them, making them do unspeakable things to themselves and those around them. She revelled in pain and torment, that perfect face becoming cruel and cold and twisted as she watched POWs writhe in agony as friends beat them to death, unable to control their own actions as their sanity fled.

And she just sat there, in that uniform, the high jack boots well polished, Dormant. She had her legs crossed as one toe slowly moved up and down, the only evidence of the rising impatience.

"I make you nervous, Kapitan….?" She didn't break her gaze out the front window, speaking through laced fingers.

"Yes, mein Kommandent. It is not usual for one of your office to be supervising us aboard this ship. I am not used to such individuals such as you, especially those working for the SS" He stopped, feeling as though he'd said too much.

"Gut, Gut…" she said softly. It had just been conversation, to break the gut wrenching boredom she'd felt over the last few days. She could see the Allies from her and wanted to push the ship further into the fray, to drop the bombs and wreak terror and chaos on those below. She bit her lip, a thin dribble of blood spewing forth from the corner of her mouth as a sharp canine dug in. She could smell the fear, the faint stench of sweat could be easily detected from the well shaven Nazi officer as he stood there, stopwatch in hand as droplets of moisture ran down his neck to soak into the too tight white collar.

"…how much time?"

"It iz vone hour till launch, mein kommandent"

* * *

The Lancaster swung east just as the moon crested the horizon and swung low across the tree tops of the large sweeping forest on the borders of Germany. Within the rattling, smoky interior, the shrouded Templar stood ready, the clatter of weapon priming the only noise. Renfield could feel the seething itch of claws beneath his fingers as the bloodlust made his hair bristle. Across the way, Holmwood slowly pulled together last of his weapon packs and tied off a thick leather belt about his shoulders, his thick crystal glasses catching the light as he checked his equipment.

"So, Captain…" Marian lent forward in her seat as beside her, Harker started from her nap "…what's the game plan"

Wrathwell raised his head from a thick volume spread across his knee, the bare, brown leather jacket squeaking as moved in his seat.

"Game Plan…." He paused, turned a page and fixed the sniper with a beady eye "…game plan is like so. 'is Nibbs has got a bead on a rather interesting Nazi project currently in progress over Germany. The usual, bog standard occult warfare kind of thing. Not exactly war changing stuff to begin with. More running round campfires wailing to be useful in combat. However, when there was a merger the Lezte Battalion last year that got the ball rolling and with Vampires on staff, it seems they were able to get something to work…"

"He speaks as if it's nothing at all…" Lyra murmured the shrouded form of Shia'ra beside her. The cabalist grunted, her eyes closed.

"He just has seen it so much after living so long; I guess it just gets repetitive after a time. There will always be one crazed warmonger who tries to change to world through some 'other' means. And that man will run into Wrathwell or some other 'Hero' at some point who will either put their nose out of joint and send them scuttling away or kill them out right."

Lyra sat back as Shia'ra spoke. She daren't as which died, but with the usual pessimism that befell all Templar, she guessed it was the 'Hero'.

There was snap from the other end of the rattling space. A 50th Collumnist leant forward in his chair, a rifle resting on his knee from where he'd been polishing it and seemed to fix Wrathwell with a glare from behind his blacked out gas mask which covered his face. He was clad in the usual battle armour of the British Army, the green felt covered with ammo pouches. A thick tube ran down from the gas mask into a pouch on his front, tied onto a large, ceramic breastplate which encased most his upper body. The gasmask left no impression of a face beneath and the back of his head, where the leather straps holding it in place were in fact covered with a thick green scarf.

There were no clues to the human underneath, but in some wish to make it evident, the soldier had written 'Brent' in white paint onto the side of his helm, just above the brim. They'd all done that, each of the faceless 50th Columnists who occupied the rattling space. Apart from Wrathwell and his squad, there were seven soldiers, each wearing gasmasks and each armed to the teeth.

"Vampires, we weren't informed about them…"

"Wasn't in the report…." Wrathwell said matter of factly "…it's just a guess of mine."

The trooper didn't reply and signalled to the others with a circle of his fingers. Each fiddled with the breathing pipe pouch. There was a hiss of air from behind the gasmasks and each sat back again.

"Just to be careful, we're going to maximum dosage, Captain…" he paused, his voice becoming a little more forced "…use….us….wisely"

"Anyway…" Wrathwell continued, giving the soldier a funny look before speaking "…we've got a whole load of bad mojo to deal with. Using the gyroscopes we found in Norway, they've made a bomb. One to be used in the worst of circumstances…"

"Like been invaded by the Allies…"

"…yes, like been invaded by the Allies…thank you Marian…." He said sarcastically as the sniper grinned happily "…however, the really this wasn't found earlier is because we were unable to pin it down to one exact location."

"So, what….?" Another columnist lent forward in his chair, 'Pike' written in spidery white letters on his helmet "…they keep moving Labs"

"No, they keep the moving the actual Lab…" Wrathwell said, linking his fingers "…the entire thing is one big zeppelin, currently hanging over Berlin."

"We got the dibs on its whereabouts when several artefact shipments, lab equipment and Tesla coils were shipped to an airfield just outside Warsaw…." Harker folded her arms across her chest she spoke, the iron mask barely moving as she spoke "…then the Airship sent a plane down and then the Shipments disappeared from the hanger. It never lands, never lands for fuel and just floats there, occasionally sending planes to pick up troops or…" a faint shudder passed through the room "…POWs. We don't know what goes on up there and Sod knows where the hell they're getting food, apart from the Vampires aboard, who we believe are been fed the POWs."

"Damn…." Lyra murmured, tugging at her heavy backpack strap resting against her knees.

"Or something worse. The SS are on board and I bet that means they have an operative from the Thule Society, or the Millennium Project."

"So, are they going to drop it here…?" Holmwood pulled the leather straps over his shoulders and rearranged his main tool pouch strapped across his chest.

"They'll drop it here, decimate our forces probably perhaps. Our intelligence is rather sketchy after that point, more guess work and prayer then anything we can use, The Nazis' certainly had more of a sealed drum view of intelligence it would appear. After seeing the freakshows they've pulled through in Essex, Scotland, Norway and Poland, this'll be no different…Unless…" there was lengthy pause, his last word lingering in the rattling compartment "…and I get that horrible feeling that, all that time in the air, not landing for fear of been spotted by our spies, that this could be something else. God knows what they've been cooking up, up there"

* * *

Winslow stepped into the cold evening air outside the Hellsing apartments paused. He tilted his head back midst the ruined street and raised a hand to the sky. There was a crack of black wings and a raven, its feathers glossy in the black sky, alighted gently on the idling staff car on the far side of the road.

Winslow fixed the bird with a cold glare. "Tell Commander Kraskov of the Russian Army that we are ready for their help in the push to Warsaw, have him send me the relevant papers once he deems it necessary…." The bird squawked and made to fly off before Winslow raised a hand, halting it "…and remind him, that he must not take us lightly"

It was gone in a cloud of feathers, the shape of the bird seeming to distort, becoming larger before it was lost in the pitch dark sky. Winslow turned to the silent Sergeant at his elbow.

"Inform the Men that it is time to move out, I expect they're getting rather restless"

"Yes, Sir"

"And…" Winslow summoned the cane from the air with a snap of his fingers and rested a hand upon it "…take the staff car…" The Sergeant looked surprised as the older man began to walk away "…for such a lovely evening, it would be a shame for me not to walk the streets for a time. Send a car for me at dawn"

"Where will you be Sir?"

"Hyde Park, I have a rather important meeting I must attend"

* * *

The last lingering clouds were ripped from the sky as Harker mounted the roof of the plane and clamped her legs round the ridge of metal which ran along the spine of the plane. Her mane of hair was billowing behind her back as the plane swooped low, the night air playing round her form as she raised her arms. Forbidden, ancient words began to flow from her lips as shimmering energy cascades rolled along her arms, her finger tips sparking with green sparks. The clouds wheeled away, exposing the cold space beyond as the stars began to glow with renewed vigour.

The moon, once a pale orb began to glow a sickly green as the winds began to howl around the plane. Inside, Wrathwell blew on his hands as ice began to creep down the interior. Marian shivered, pulling the grey cloak around her form as her hair became solid with frost. The better armoured soldiers within the plane's interior seemed to ignore the freezing air, their own armour becoming covered with frost swirls, encasing their forms.

"Witching hour…..damn…." Marian murmured through cracked lips as dragons' breath boiled from her mouth "...I thought elves were all flowers and trees."

"Don't, on any account, get Wood Elves mixed with actual Elves…" Wrathwell raised his eyes to the ceiling as the plane began to rattle loudly, the weight of the ice causing the plane to sink. "...from here on in, its all ice and snow."

The freezing air cut through the walls of the zeppelin as the moon began to glare eerily down on the now freezing city far below. One of the officers on the bridge of the zeppelin lent forward in his seat as his glasses began to show the tell tell signs of frost.

"I've never zeen ze moon zhat colour before…" he murmured. Even in the heated interior of the zeppelin, the fingers of frost were running clearly over the walls. He could hear the walls creaking as the ice began to build on the windows. "…or zhat size".

The moon indeed was growing, the moonlight now bathing the exterior with green shades. Ice sparkled on the metal surfaces as the fingers of moonlight caught. It was creeping along the plating and running along the thick metal wires securing the gondola to the balloon high above.

Zorin saw it too as she heaved herself upright. That creaking sound, that crackle of frost had drowned out the engines and all other noise from the rest of the ship. They were encased, in a coffin like frost which obscured her vision through the main windows. Across the board, gauges were reporting record low temperatures in the lower decks and the engine rooms. Even now, she could see the gauges dropping as fuel in the pipes themselves, began to flow more sluggishly as the fingers of frost touched the fuel pumps.

"Ve're losing power to aft engines, Kommandent!!" alarms began to sound with the bridge as the clank of boots began to sound down the metal halls as other soldiers ran to steady engine nodes as the ice forced them loose.

"The fuel pumps are freezing up!!"

"Vhat!!..." Zorin seized the soldier at her elbow and wrenched him up to her face "…vhy is zat happening, Captain!?"

"Ve don't know, Kommandent…its impossible…" he said, panicked "…zis zeppelin vas designed to withstand most of the elements but zis is different. Zis goes beyond most of the temperatures ve've ever recorded, even zhat high altitudes!!"

She snarled dumping the terrified man to the metal planking and turned on her heel. "Zen vhy aren't ve dead zen? Vouldn't such low temperatures kill uz azvell?"

"Itz almost as if it's targeting certain areas, to cripple uz vhile avoiding the bridge"

"Vhat do you mean, you cretin!!?"

"Zat something iz controlling it!!"

"Nein…!" Zorin whirled around, her single iron cross jangling round her starched collar. "…evacuate the engine rooms now!! Pull everyone to thee warmer areas!!"

There was a groaning creak out the bridge window as the large shape of the balloon began to swell under the weight of the ice, the bridge beginning to pitch ever so slightly. It was so cold beyond the plate glass frames that snow was beginning to fall from the pitch dark, cloudless sky.

"Zhere are foul vords on the vind…." Zorin could feel her hearing straining to pick out the murmurs over the wind "…something is calling to uz from outside."

* * *

From her position mounted on the top of the plane, Harker cackled, the snap of her laugh lost on the winds. Her hair was a sparking sparking mane of violent red as it broke free from its bindings as eldritch lighting ran along her arms. The plane was increasing in speed as the pilots spurred it on. Ice and snow was pelting the hardened metal of the pitch black plane as the Elf, her pointed ears exposed bowed her head into the storm as her iron mask shed the ice. Behind the eye pieces, her eyes were literally burning as green flames erupted across her face. And beyond that, behind the black iron and the green fire, was a horrible, evil grin which split her face in two.


	13. Finding that Violet Hill

Right, next chapter up. For those who are actually keeping up with the Templar Story, thank you. Unlike some who just write for reviews, i write because i enjoy it which means that the chapters will never stop and i will never give up.

Tharagon

* * *

Mist hung on the still air. Beneath the silent moon's watchful orb, the barbed wire, mud and duck board of the German defensive line were stencilled, barbed shadows in the cold night. The last line of defence, the last trench and defensive line. Beyond this point it would be mile after mile of ruined streets and fire. Here, suicide was the only way the soldiers would describe such a posting.

There was a vast blast of light on the Eastern borders. A single German soldier started awake in his lofty watchtower perch, rubbing his eyes as the after images of the explosion filled his vision. He broke from his seat and grabbed the solid metal railing of the tower's edge and levered himself up, trying to catch a glimpse of the source of the explosion. Nothing moved, the mist crept around the girders of the tower base. Out there, beyond the moon's light, barb wire jangled in the slightest of breezes, but nothing moved.

There was a clatter of a phone bell as the tower phone whirred into life. The guard seized the plastic grip and took a quick breath.

"Guard Tower B! Vhat do you see?"

"Nothing, Kommandent…" the guard took a quick glance over the mud "…vhat the hell ist going on?"

The barb wire jangled with renewed vigour as the several dark shapes darted across the noman's land, leaping from trench to trench with ease, their path's marked by the slightest of breezes.

There was a ripple of gunfire to the left of the single prominent tower. It seemed strange, cut short as if some one had pulled the plug on the sound as the now muted night fell back into place. The guard felt his heart increase in speed as there was an exclamation on the phone line. He could here his superiors trying to find some kind of contact with the forward lines. And the confusion in his own kommandent's voice was apparent.

"Vhat ze hell ist going on?! Tower B, can you see anything!?"

The searchlight snapped on and filled the night with a single ghostly finger. Nothing moved out there, but the night air seemed a little busier. He could see the briefest of shadows, hostile movements which caused his fingers to reach for his rifle at his feet. He kept his eyes on the single finger of glittering light as he pushed the searchlight across as his fingers clung to the cold metal.

A flash of silver caught his eye as he pushed the light across the seemingly endless rolls of wire and anti tank blocks. Something made his heart stop for split second.

There, standing on the trench wall a mere two hundred metres away was a large wooden crucifix. And there, held in place by many bands of barb wire was a single German soldier, his uniform bloody and his helmet missing. Blood dripped freely from his jackboots as the nails driven into his feet added to the gore. His head sagged as his blond hair was covered with red stains, his face lacerated by many blades. It was a gruesome totem and as the German sentry gasped and reached for the command's phone, the crucified German soldier raised his head and screamed.

"Mein Kommandent!! Mein Kommandent!!" This time, the throaty crackle of the phone lines did not greet him, replaced by a horrible dull silence. There was another rattle of gunfire on the right hand side of the tower which then cut off abruptly, as if someone had pulled the plug on a radio.

At that point the power failed and plunged the tower into darkness. All across the defensive line things moved with malicious intent. Dark claws wandered over soldiers' corpses as fanged shadows ripped through crowded bunkers, their occupants shredded.

The single guard felt the monsters raising from the black beneath his feet and felt the cold kiss of the rising breeze on his face. He readied his gun and fired blindly into the night. Below, the Knights of the Knight Templar dropped into cover as the bullets rebounded off exposed metal. Or stopped…

A single round paused in air as a grey robe shifted, its occupant raising an armoured hand before its face as the air seemed to shift and boil around the bullet and its intended target. The bullet exploded as and ripped the grey mud around his feet as the force sent the grey robe rippling.

"Vhat the hell are you!!"

A shadow was in his tower before he could react as monstrous shadows flitted across the base of the tower, speeding their way to their objective. He could hear the snickering laugh and the hiss of breath as a razor sharp claw tore a hole in his chest…

"We……are your death."

* * *

Aboard the vast zeppelin suspended over the frozen city, the engines was full of noise as the last engineers were pulled clear as the ice began to build on the fuel pumps. Outside, it wasn't much better ever as, with a mind of their own, the frost covered nearly every surface as Vampires and Soldiers alike shivered and coughed in the freezing air.

"Ve have to get ov ze engine roomz, Captain..." A soldier stuttered over the grumbling of the 'rescued' engineers. "…ze engines are goingink to blow out vith all zhat ice incasing zhem."

"Nein…the Kommandent order uz to ztay put and guard ze door"

"Vell, I don't zee our little Fraulien down here to order uz, Captain" there was a rumble of dissent from the massed ranks of German soldiers and the more heavily armoured vampires who tried to separate themselves from the rank and file soldiers. "…vhy we must follow orderz from some freak vhen the glorious Third Reich falls below"

The officer's peaked cap rose over the massed soldiers, doubt whispering in his own mind as his men turned against him. "Zhat is traitorous talk, Private"

"Traitourous….Hah!" the single voice of dissent amongst the ranks, a brown clad sniper with a thick metal helmet set over his short brown hair looked around at his fellow soldiers "…vhy have ve been abandoned zhen? Hazn't ze third Reich abandoned us azvell? Zhey have betrayed uz."

"You vill be quiet…" the hoarse voice of one of the vampires rang out across the groaning sound of the ice. "…desertion iz met vith death, ze kommandent vould have you shot"

"Vhats ze use, Ve vould all die anyvay if ve continue on zis path"

"The Var is not over!"

"The var ist over. Ve lost…" he stopped dead as a surge of black fabric tore him asunder. A vampire, arm dripping with gore passed among the men for they had chance to move or for the wrecked body to hit the floor. There was a drip of blood on the freezing metal floor as the men yelled and panicked, the officer calling for calm as the humans tried to get as far away from the wrecked corpse on the floor.

"Nezer, ever zay ve lost. Deserters vill be shot. If not by the kommadent, by uz. Ve are ze Letze Battaion!!" He was torn apart by machine gun fire as a panicked soldier opened fire. It wasn't silver bullets and the surprised vampires returned fire. The dull groans of ice locked walls and the frost running riot in the engine room was drowned out by the roar of gunfire as bullets rang off the walls. Men were cut down, some gargling as their throats were cut. Vampires snarled as blood broke from their wounds, even if it was black rotting fluid as they moved in dark, fanged shadows across the walls and flowed across the floor at amazing and terrible speed. Soldiers screamed as sharp fangs met their throats as the vampires unlocked their jaws and tore through the close ranks.

The single Nazi officer, aghast at the chaos fell back as around him, his men fell bloody and dying as the vampires rose back to their feet, blood pouring back into open wounds as their bodies healed. They were sneering, laughing as blood lust coursed through their veins. Animals, that was what all was left of the once soldiers. Animals bound in blood to fulfil their own selfish desires and their want to feed. Perhaps Blitz gave them that. A conduit through which they could satisfy their own violent needs. Whatever it was, there was little humanity left now. He pulled himself into a corner, his own pistol limp in his hands as the frost slowly began to creep over the piles of bodies and freeze the blood which ran across the metal floor.

* * *

The ice was still covering the inside of the plane as the floor tilted, the pilots bringing the plane around for the final approach. Wrathwell pulled the scythe from its compartment as around, the motley array of Shotguns, Rifles and Machine guns were been armed and loaded, safety catches snapping off. Shia'ra caught the blood pack he tossed her with a quick flick of the hand which most of the others were unable to follow. Beside her, Lyra was sure she spotted a surge of red serpentine tentacles. Horribly, it put Lyra in mind of a shark rising to seize some held food.

"Ugh…." Shia'ra murmured as she turned the bag over, inspecting its contents. "…I hate it cold" And then it was gone. Lyra almost shrieked as the hand dissolved, skin falling away as several barbed, crimson tentacles tore from her long black sleeve and tore into the bag. There was a slight spray of blood before the plastic coating fell away, empty. Picked clean, Lyra shivered as the hand became one, the skin becoming. She could, though only just, see the skin distending as the tentacles flowed beneath.

"That…….was……." she gulped "…horrifying. I prefer how vampires eat"

"Vampires are animals with a delusion of some civility. I'm…." she turned and fixed the woman beside her with a hard stare. Lyra looked into her eyes for the first time since she'd joined the squad one and a half years ago. Before the hazel eyes, she could see the red specks of blood moving at their own accord over the curve of her retina. "…more a monster in mind and body…"she shivered "…oof, too cold…"

Wrathwell cracked the reinforced left side door open, the metal even more stiff as the ice covered its surface. Outside, the wind howled and nearly made him lose his grip as he struggled to keep his balance. The specially modified Lancaster bomber was streaked with glittering white as high above; the maelstrom of snow gave way to a perfectly calm, though cold night sky. He could see the stars twinkling far beyond, in that peerless, though snowy sky. It was quite surreal too; they occupied what appeared to be the eye of the storm, the blizzard kept at bay by the plane. And through the blizzard, which formed a massive wall beyond the edge of the plane's wing, was the Zeppelin.

The frost had cast fern like etchings across its mixture of grey cloth and steel. Harker truly was straining to keep the storm in order. Enough wind and snow even to cause problems to a zeppelin was unbelievable. As was the size of the Zeppelin. Wrathwell's appreciative whistle was lost in the winds as they swept below. That thing dwarfed most Battleships and Dreadnoughts he'd ever seen. It must have been thing of brilliant engineering and designed to get to the highest altitudes while remaining a stable platform for research and god knows what else.

The Red Swastika Banners hanging off the balloon made his gut twist uncomfortably as they passed by. What each red, white and black symbol meant would be a lesson to the rest of the world and a massive sour mark amongst the allied nations. Evil, human evil would always glare back, a horrible reminder to the rest of the world. And, in fifty years time, one big elephant to the Germanic Population.

A green light began to flash beside his head, slowly becoming covered with the thin sheet of ice as throughout the rattling interior of the plane, alarms began to sound and the men began to rise from their seats. Wrathwell felt a presence at his elbow and turned to see Lyra pulling herself into position beside him.

"How the Hell are we supposed to get over there Sir?!!" She yelled over the howling winds as the Zeppelin closer. They pulled quickly into the shelter of the balloon and slowed down even more, metal gantries and hanging wires whipping past as they flew by. And surprised looking soldiers peered out of portals….

* * *

A soldier snapped his heels together before Zorin's chair on the breeze. Zorin fixed him with one, half closed eye, the other closed in fatigue and stress.

"Kommandent!! Ve have spotted a large Black Aircraft oft the Eastern Side"

"Vell, I vas expecting Company. Who are ve expecting? The Vatican? Hellsing, The Americans? "

"Ve don't know. It looks British but there are no markings to report"

A rather cruel smile cut across her features. "Prepare the men, unt tell zhe others that our meal haz arrived"

* * *

Spotlights began to glare along the side of the Zeppelin as the Lancaster came back for its third passing. Already, the beams were panning through the howling snow, trying to give the turrets built into the side of the craft something to aim at.

Wrathwell braced himself at the door, the war scythe strapped solidly to his back by a large thick belt with several bright metal scales sown into the material as the two massive revolvers bounced up and down in the wind.

"We jump…"

"What…!!" Lyra paled visibly, if that was possible "…I didn't sign up for that!!"

"You didn't sign up at all…." Wrathwell grinned ruthlessly as he seized his Lieutenant's coat in one large metal gauntlet. "…joining us is as near to conscription as the British will ever get in this war….YOU READY!!!!?"

"NO!!!" Lyra shrieked as she was lifted bodily.

"That wasn't a question!!"

He sent her shrieking out into the howling wind as they passed another series of gantries. In a swirl of brown leather, brown felt and gun metal he was gone too, his feet carrying him more then humanly possible.

Lyra came to a screaming, skittering halt on a single metal gantry on the Zeppelin. It had been a horrific flight through the freezing winds, her face pelted with ice and snow as all thoughts went to the Vampires who were waiting for her on this vessel……and the drop. She raised her head, her charm bindings askew and tried to gauge her boarding point. She appeared to be between two segments of the ship, the gantry acting as an access point between the two sections. This was all held together by a mass of girders above and beyond that, the balloon stretched on up.

The metal plating of the gantry was covered in ice as icicles hung from steel wires. She was shivering, tired and in some state of shock. Not the best way to travel or get caught in a combat situation.

She could feel the soldiers moving to battle stations around her as alarms sounded across the ship. These were audible even over the howling winds which was surprising for the ferocity of the storm. Lyra clambered up, readying her pistol. The plane sped past again.

There was a screech of tortured metal as the several metal hooks clanged into the girders and gantries which made up this section of the ship. As if torn from the plane, shapes began break away from the ship, pulled in by the anchor like metal wires attached to the hooks. Columnists, their armour covered in ice and snow slammed heavily into the gantry or into the large metal girders which acted as some kind of scaffolding, and to them, an easy foothold.

There was another ship which had broken from the plane. A mist like form which seemed to hang on the wind before smashing into the side of the gondola several hundred metres away from their position. Renfield, Lyra could pick out the wolfish shapes which flowed within the mist which easily identified the wolf. However, she'd never seen him like that before. There was crump of breaking ice beside her and a dishevelled form of a Columnist dropped into view, shattering the layer of frost at his feet.

"Captain Brent…." Lyra gasped, as the others dropped into defensive positions around her "…am I glad to see you."

"Ma'am, we seriously need to get off this platform before they get wind of where we're landing. We're sitting ducks out here."

"I'm not going to disagree with you. Where the Hell are we going?"

"The best bet is the bridge; they're probably controlling the weapon from there."

Lyra took a long breath, knowing the bloodshed to come, "…and the others"

"They're dropping to other positions along the ship as we speak. All making for the bridge. Holmwood wants to locate the Bomb; Wrathwell is trying to rendezvous with us at some point. Harker is dealing with the engine rooms and Shia'ra is trying to locate officers and anyone who was directly involved with the project…" he cracked his fingers as around him, the silent shadows of the other columnists slowly dropped into view. There was an air of happiness in his voice as a large matt black shotgun was readied "…I think its time we got busy"

* * *

Something broke against the ice. In the engine room corridor, the Vampires raised their faces to the ceiling and sniffed, their nostrils flaring. The single human Nazi officer could feel his teeth chattering as the freezing air began to cloy thick in his lungs. It had defiantly dropped a degree; he could see the blood freezing on the floor as his men became frost covered lumps in their positions on the floor.

His pistol was covered with a thin layer of ice, the trigger frozen open. Inoperable, he should have discarded it a while ago, but the leather of his gloves had gone rigid, freezing his hands into a claw.

There was another clang. Something was defiantly moving either above them or outside. Some would just expect it to be the wind but after the year he'd spent aboard this vessel, it could be anything. There were several knocks as something solid rapped on the metal. It sound rather fragile, the once foot thick wall. Almost as if the thing outside was tapping on a pane of glass, not a heavily reinforced slab.

There was a series of clanks and clangs outside. The Vampires backed away till their black trench coats rested against opposite wall as their machine guns and rifles rose into position at their shoulders. Another rattling moan echoed through the corridor, the last lingering warmth been snatched out of the air as a gust of freezing air blew down the corridor. The officer gripped his claw like hands to his chest and pushed himself further into the gap between the two large metal pipes. Whatever was trying to break in was certainly a bad thing and he wished to keep as much of a distance between him and it.

He dragged himself from the gap and began to pull himself down the corridor to the frozen closed doors at the far end of the corridor. Behind, a vampire caught a glimpse of the single man as he scrabbled clear. His fangs ripped from his mouth as he sneered, his red eyes flashing.

"Vhat are you, a covard?"

He drew his knife and strode down the length of the corridor. He slammed his boot into the crawling officer's back and brought the knife down to the man's neck. The retreating officer whimpered as beneath those crimson eyes, he could feel fear gripping his soul.

The wall exploded in a blast of freezing air. A dark shape, its movements quick and hard to follow was through the vampires before they had chance to fight back. A flash of silver wrought hell as the serpentine form of Harker danced and swirled, her ebony digits etched with blood and silver as ice broke on her armour from her stint on the tail of the Lancaster transport craft. Her golden eyes were blazing with life as she brought her boot heel soaring down onto a black helmet before whirling round, one of the two knives tearing a hole through the heart of the her attacker before she swirled around. She swung low, a heavily muscled arm sweeping low for her head as she imbedded her blade in the others armpit, severing his tendons and causing the arm to sag violent before her other knife ripped his chest to shreds.

There was a spray of black blood as Harker broke free, several vampires falling dead and adding to the piles on the floor before pushing back. She skipped back into the group, tantalizingly close to one vampire's head before a silver knuckled fist planted itself squarely in his face, a silver knife cutting through his rib cage with ease as he staggered away surprised.

The vampire snarled and pulled his boot off the prone Nazi officer and opened fire, his snarl elongating in the flashing, barbed shadows.

"Shoot!!! Shoot till your empty!!"

Harker was a bolt of shadow at that point, her form elongating as she rebounded off the walls as the metal was scored with bullet holes. The vampire drew his knife as his machine gun clicked empty and rose his arm, the knife ready to block the on coming attack his hand, claw like and solid readying to strike. It would be fruitless, but he wasn't going to end his unlife without at least laying one wound on his attacker.

There was a clang of metal and the shock that ran through his arm was enough to shatter several ribs. But the attack stopped. He raised his head, a triumphant grin spreading across his features as he spotted the knife blade against his own, his own knife scarred and chipped with the amount of force pressed against it.

"Oh yeah…." He began to laugh as he stared at the still parrying knife, the sense of triumph welling up. He was still laughing as blood began to flow from his mouth. The black, foul smelling blood of a vampire dribbling plainly down his chin. He was still laughing as he slumped to the floor, the long stiletto blade of Harker's sword impaling him catching the light as it dripped blood, his blood onto the cold floor.

Harker pulled her blade free from the gleeful corpse and cast her arm back. There was a meaty thud and a groan as one soldier slumped back, a short knife imbedded in his chest, puncturing his heart.

"Worthless, all of you, worthless. You sacrifice your lives for this, a petty immortality and power and yet you are still defeated by an elder, one you so easily cast aside when you walked this dark path…." Harker sheathed her stiletto blade, the scabbard falling into place around it, like a snake regaining its skin "…why leave your lives behind when there is so much to have in the real world. Is to be a vampire, to be greedy?"

The single Nazi officer rolled over and groaned as he raised his head from the ice covered floor. More bodies met him as Harker's slim shape strode away from him, her swan like body swaying slightly as she ripped her knife from the dead vampire's chest.

"What is your name?" the elf paused, red tresses spilling from the back of the mask as she turned her head."

"Mein name…" the officer stuttered, his attacker in pieces beside him "…Mein name ist Strauss."

"Well Strauss…" Harker paused, mid step "…I would advise you find a parachute and get out of here now." She spoke with a cold, British accent, a voice which filled with Strauss with a chill as he sat there. The accent didn't suit the form however, her body was more…well, he couldn't quite place it….it spoke of exotic places. The scent of spices and fruits were on the air around her, even if they were of a clean scent unlike the exotic spices he knew. The very air rolled with the sense of the unknown and to stare into those twin golden orbs would be….like leaping….no, that wasn't it, something older which existed in all humans' minds….like the will to fall.

"Who are you…?"

"Me….?" Harker didn't bother to look back as Strauss scrabbled to his feet "…me, my own, my only…" she paused, in thought "…they call me….Harker"


	14. RavenFlight

The corridors were filled with chaos as the black shapes of the vampires sprinted to defensive positions. Lyra burst into a side room as a mounted machine gun down the hall shredded the walls and tore one soldier apart in a bloody shower. Captain Brent swore as the man thudded to the floor, his hide ruined. His pack was venting a dull, grey mist as his gas mask fell away to expose the pale, warped and blood covered face below. In the side room, some kind of closet by appearances, Lyra pulled herself upright just as the whining machine gun over heated.

A horrific hush settled over the corridor as the machine gun whistled as it cooled. Brent, in cover like other members of his squad in alcoves beside pipes, pushed himself upright as behind his head, Sergeant Pike's .32 Karr blew a hole in the machine gunner's head before he had chance to reactivate the cooling gun. He snapped the bolt back, ejecting the single cartridge. The squad surged on as more and more soldiers filtered out into the corridors, a look of fear on most of their faces as half creased uniforms were pulled on over pyjamas.

An afterthought made her reach for the silvery dog tags which would be suspended round most soldiers' necks. Her hands met nothing, the neck was bare; there were no dog tags.

Obviously, most of the Germans' on board the airship had little fight left in them and they shrunk to the side, arms raised. Brent ignored them as the soldiers sprinted on. At their back, Lyra checked her ammo cartridge in her Toratev. Her thin fingers quivered under the pressure as branching corridors whipped by, the speed they were going at was astounding. It was probably the adrenaline she could feel coursing through her veins which pushed her on as her boots and the others beat a steady rhythm on the floor below.

* * *

Klaxons rang through the corridors as Renfield exploded from the hanger door, his claws extending as vampires yelled and raised their guns. The wolf was through them before they could fire as mist flowed from his arms. Hundreds of wolf heads erupted snarling from the mist, each swirling through the ranks of massed soldiers who occupied the main hanger, the supposed insurgent point. But only one man had erupted through the gap, the white mop of his hair hiding the ferocious eyes below. A German captain fell back as the body exploded into life, claws bared and fangs longing for flesh as the Wyrewolf howled in the blood filled air.

"Fire!! Throw everything you have at it!!!"

Along high gantries, machines gun roared into life, tracer rounds cutting through the mass of men and slicing easily through the mist. Wolves howled, their heads boiling out of existence as the bullets tore holes in the mist.

"Fire….hit it again!!!!" the captain craned forward as the wolf was forced back, metre by metre toward to the huge hole in the wall where the hanger doors once stood "….again!!!...." the bullets flashed across the space, tearing through the wolf as he pushed forward, the bullets peeling flesh from his muscles. "….again….!!" an arm fell loose, severed as the bullets took their toll. Blood scattered across the deck as the wolf, the man slumped down to his knees, the onslaught costing him dearly as he pushed on.

One by one, the guns stopped, their metal cases glowing as they overheated. Silence fell about them like a sheet as the still standing soldiers rose to their feet, their comrades on the high gantries pouring coolant onto the machine guns. There was so much blood on the deck, all running from the ruined form of the man who lay, destroyed midst the bodies of his enemies.

"Body Count!! Who ist ztill able to vight...?" Several shaky hands were raised. The Captain's lip curled. "…Vhat in hell vas zat Obesrt?"

"I don't know, Captain…" the man beside him looked up from his steaming machine gun "…I've nezer seen…" Both men paused mid conversation as a rumbling chuckle echoed through the cold, metal, blood covered space. Blood flowed, the wrong way. It flowed toward the shattered corpse of the man where he lay, bathed in the green light from the full moon.

"…you have no idea…..Huhuhuhuhuhuuhuhu…" flesh began to reknit as long tendrils of muscle returned to their original places as that dark shape rose to its feet "…that…was a very good try…." A single golden eye sliced its way through the grey fur of the massive wolf's head which rose from the floor "…but not good enough"

* * *

Lord Winslow passed through the cold dark air as around him the grass rustled and shifted in the wind, the trees rattling their branches as he paced the empty gravel tracks which twined their way across Hyde Park. High above, the dark sky was filled with stars as the population of London hid from the freezing cold air which ran through the city streets. Mist hung on each street corner, its fingers grasping at windows as if trying to break through into the rooms beyond, where people drew the curtains and hid in cellars. No one dared be out that night and the still standing pubs allowed regulars to sleep on the floor, no one daring to exit and walk the streets.

For the more astute, there were foul things abroad this night…

Winslow paused by a lonely street light beneath the dark leafy canopy, leaning heavily on his cane as he glanced about him. Nothing but the wind moved in the dark as across the park, lights slowly began to flicker into black as one by one, their bulbs were clouded. The light he stood behind was the last pool of illumination, the path around him seeming to sink into shadow as pitch darkness engulfed the grass and gravel around him. There was a single croak and a crack of wings as the Raven alighted on the bench back. It was a massive bird, its feathers glossy as its overly intelligent eyes glaring intently at the single old man before twitching to watch dark around them.

Nothing moved, the man and the single raven slowly breathed, their eyes on the night air about them. High above, the moon seemed to take on a newer, ominous colour, a dull green shade as the once bustling city streets of post blitz London seeming a world away.

"So what brings you here Winslow?"

A neat, well shaven man lent back on the bench, his arms resting on the bench back, one cold finger tickling the raven beneath its beak. Winslow's eyes narrowed.

"Greene"

"Winslow"

They stood there a while under the light of the moon, and the pitch black park which surrounded them, shadows moved and things glimmered putting Winslow in mind of a thousand eyes, silently watching them.

"I did not know that you were invited, Greene."

"Well…" Greene paused, his eyes elsewhere his parted hair as ever neat, like his suit with that neat, cruel smile. "…the Witching Court does demand most of the representatives of the more interesting members of our population…" He paused, checking a silver fob watch which was secured in an inner pocket "…and they're late."

"I guess they're still using the Furon Gate to get through to the human realms…." Winslow paused "…time does tend to lag for the other Kingdoms and I expect what seems like midnight to us is several minutes behind…" Greene raised an eyebrow as the raven cooed appreciatively to having its head stroked "…though speak of the devil"

Ahead, the trees were curling like rotted fingers round the gravel path, roots surging up to form a nearly perfect cylindrical tunnel through which glittering lights could been seen floating amongst the curled branches. The path was rising as if alive, the gravel falling away to reveal the routes beneath, a clear thin tunnel wrought from the trees themselves. The trees were like black iron fingers, curled round the tunnel like a warped hand round a glass tube. And beyond that, a single glittering gas light mounted on a thick black metal strut. Winslow wrinkled his nose at a single snow flake which drifted past his face, a icy cold wind brushing his features which its freezing touch.

"I am surprised that Hellsing has no part in this" Lord Winslow twirled the cane in thin fingers.

"Hellsing is merely a hired army with access to one, interesting piece of old Lore. They have no place amongst Monsters, not like us. They are not considered any connection to the Fey"

"Sir Helsing should have a right to be witness to this."

"Arthur is too young, he is too wasteful, he is too reliant on that Vampire and he is blinkered to what truly is occurring in this world..." Greene allowed his lip to curl in disgust "…they have their own monsters to deal with. We have ours."

Winslow shrugged. Arthur, currently, was the last thing on his mind and for now, the single freezing cold portal and the gas lantern at the far end was of highest priority. He stooped low, the warped twigs barely scraping the top of his head as he clattered onto the root covered floor. Greene followed, his sharp, well polished shoes ringing off the hard wood floor as the single glimmering lights above his head swirled about, their glimmer lighting the knotted wood. Snow was falling quite freely into the tunnel like branches, seeming to pass through the ceiling with no sign of a gap or opening to allow them to do so. Winslow pushed the cane out before him, the black wood tapping against the portal's surface as he made his way. The cold was frosting his own black coat; Greene's hair was glimmering with tiny portions of ice as almost bent double, the two men pushed onward.

Winslow broke free from the portal in a flurry of snow flakes. Beyond that dark cramped space, the single glimmering lantern hung, the flame flickering and coughing as the old gas lantern continued to light the bare grey trees which surround the small clearing. Snow stood an inch thick on the floor as in the starry, cloud wrung sky high above the moon, much like the moon in London glared down on the cold scene.

"A gas light midst a frozen forest …" Greene dropped down onto the snow, running a finger through his greased hair "…how original. All we need now is Turkish delight and a talking cat and we'll be fine…."

Winslow ignored the other as he tugged a thick, dark green tartan scarf from his jacket and wrapped it around his neck. What appeared to be a small forest trail ran to the north and south, its passage only evident by the gap in the trees and the single thin lines of a sled which had passed through some time before. No foot prints, however, or hoof prints for that matter.

"…or large magical furniture of some kind…."Greene paused mid sentence as Winslow pulled on a pair of woollen fingerless gloves "…perhaps a talking badger…" Winslow fixed him with a dead eyed glared "…what?!"

Winslow didn't respond, instead twirling the cane around the clearing, as if deciding which way. He stopped abruptly, cane held outstretched toward the northern path. "We go that way"

"Why…" Greene took a quick glance at the path. The sled tracks had cut the snow and scattered a slight dust of frost across the surface which had left small lumps in the snow. "…how do you know that?"

Winslow tugged at his black jacket, rearranging his scarf as he set off along the frozen track, cane twirling quite happily. Greene scuffed at the snow at his feet, grumbling as he wandered on after the older man.

"Knowing you, Greg….eeny, meeny, mo."

* * *

The corridor was a bullet filled hell as Wrathwell passed among the German troops. Men fell, panicked as their bodies were split in two and blood ran freely across the decks. Wrathwell's face was impassive as the scythe screamed with unholy life as it tore a bloody arc around him, the soldiers barely able to land a finger upon him. He ducked aside, his heavily armoured fist swotting a German soldier rising from the floor, desperate to drive a knife into the immortal's ribs. His jaw broke, the black metal helmet he wore shattering under the force of the blow.

A rush of air shot by his head as he stooped low to remove the legs of one sprinting soldier. A black mailed fist had narrowly avoided taking his head off with one blow. There was a flicker of black cloth and a feral snarl as one, black clad vampire bounced off the walls, his movements hard to follow as the Knight Captain clumsily fell backward to avoid another hammer like blow. Unlike the speedier, lither members of his squad, the Captain was slow and not as manoeuvrable, his armour soaking up most of the bullets as he became more an immovable wall, the scythe ever ready. As the last soldier hit the floor, it was him and vampire in the small, clanking space of corridor. Clinging to several pipes several metres away, the vampire's long coat drifted back and forth in the breeze which pushed from the open door at the far end of the hall.

Wrathwell, spitting blood on the metal decking, readied his scythe. The vampire was gone, suddenly leaving the pipes bare as the black coat rippled at some insane speed. There was nothing but a blur to follow and Wrathwell, his scythe still ready, didn't even blink. A claw stopped dead in the air, a mailed fist wrapped around the pale flesh. The Vampire swore, surprised as he was dragged backward with great force as Wrathwell turned his green eyes toward his assailant.

"You think you can cheat death by been some dumb, immortal animal…."Wrathwell dug his fingers into vampire's wrist, shaking the other's body back and forth like a ragdoll "…you're a disgrace. A godamn disgrace to all other vampires in the world. Where is thy honour beast!! For you walk in the garden of turbulence and I assure you, unlike what your masters promised, you shall fear death!"

Flesh began to rot, skin coming loose as the vampire's once thin frame began to sag, fingers becoming skeletal as his once youthful face began to wrinkle and fall away, eyes becoming rheumy as sagging mouth gasped and wheezed. An old man reeled back as his fingers gnawed at Wrathwell's iron grip. "Immortality…" he spat, as he allowed the wretched form of the vampire collapse to the ground. "…then live with that, you bastard"

* * *

Harker was a shadow as she stole into the gantries above the labs. Lit by a nightmarish green light, glass tubes hung from thick metal wires suspended beneath each metal walk way, each metal strut which fell away to the floor a long way below. Harker rested her hands on the railing and pulled herself up, her form becoming cat like as she crouched on that single inch thin railing. Below, other gantries held the same glass tubes and research scientists moved from station to station, clip boards in hand as soldiers ran through the white clad crowds, their guns ready and their expressions grim.

The green light cast nightmarish shadows over her mask as Harker craned forward, her red hair drifting forward in the slight breeze which ran from the door. The tubes appeared to be empty, but under closer inspection, each thick glass tube contained single silverly particles which hung in the air like dust motes, discharging a violent green lightning every second. Eldritch, she could easily see the green lighting from here, however corrupted by that green light. How they were able to harness it, she had no idea. For such a vast energy source, this seemed all too easy.

"Funf Minuten unt Counten"

Harker broke from her reverie as a harsh, metallic tone rang from the speakers spread across the ceiling. Below, more soldiers and white clad technicians began to hurry to their stations or hurry off along the gantry to a long round wall at the far end of the room. A silo by appearances, many wires ran to its underside and several technicians waited at thick glass portals which adorned its sides.

Harker slid down from her perch, flowing like silk along the mesh of the walkway as her fingers splayed across the thick metal of the railing.

* * *

The corridor from the bridge rang with the noise of Zorin's and the Captain's boots as they ran. Behind them, the nervous shouts of the squad left to guard the bridge echoed resonantly through the corridors. They would die; Zorin knew that, like the others who were torn apart in the lower levers. She'd already had to bullet into her second in command after his eyes changed colour from a dull brown to a bright crimson with slitted pupils. His body disappeared promptly leaving several dead red tendrils, as whatever it was, had dragged itself away. In an eyeblink, Zorin could have sworn she'd also glimpsed a black robed woman with the same slitted eyes of her second waiting just beyond the frozen glass of the bridge canopy, just before it disappeared in a seemingly crimson mist. The others hadn't seen it however, though the Captain wasn't in a suicidal mood to argue.

"Vhat do you plan to do, Kommadent…" the red faced German officer came gasping to a halt as he lent heavily against a protruding pipe, too long spent in an airship chair watching the world roll by below. Before them, stairs ran down into the crimson light of emergency beacons.

"I vill go on to activate Raganarok, Mein Capitan. Ve vill see zhese bastards pay vor zheir insolence"

"Unt me, mein kommandent?"

"You vill face it alone, for your lack of preparation for zhese events. You vill ztop here and ztop them in a chance to redeem youself"

"Nein!! Nein!! You can't leave me here, Kommandent…!!" he grasped at her black lapels as the Kommandent look down on him, pale face creasing in a disgusted leer "…I vill be torn to piezes"

"Vell, zo be it. You vere of zome use, but your usefulness has run out, Auf Wiedersehen mein Kapitan." Her boot met his stomach sending him tumbling back into the pipe work. He lay there, whimpering as Zorin towered over him, black rags rolling round her form as she poured her malice and hatred into the man's head. Death walked the halls in his mind as the cowled individual raised the scythe high above his head and brought it crashing down.

She left him there, whimpering like a child as he hugged the thick pipe beside him, his only comfort in the freezing cold, red light which emanated from the many beacons.

The door to the main lab was ajar as Zorin pushed against it, stepping into the blessedly warm air beyond. The cold had failed to penetrate the lower levels and the generators continued to pump warm air into the wide space. In fact the heat was so strong, the metal mesh which made up the floor dripped with condensation as droplets fell many metres to the base of the vast room around sixty metres below. The weapon was a large column of black iron which rose high into a large pit built in the ceiling seeming to go on into the gas bag itself, its sides adorned with many portals and pipes.

That eerie green light that had always been connected with flow of eldritch energy in the Kingdoms poured from each thick glass portal within which particles flowed and eddied in green lightning. And behind the lightning, a large pillar of mechanisms pirouetted, each sparking violently. The ceiling was a black mass where light failed to reach. Pipes were outlined in the darkness, each spewing steam from vents as they struggled to cool the heat the weapon was creating.

A single paper wrapped caught on the tip of Zorin's boot as she quietly closed the door behind her and marched across the decking toward the main control console several metres away. The consoles and the gantries should have been full of people all carrying out set tasks. Instead, blood stained dials glared back as crimson fluid dribbled through the gaps in the mesh floor. Some were torn asunder by blades, others lay still rigid and their faces contorted into such expressions of pain and fear that Zorin, even after many years of combat experience she'd gone through felt the smallest thrill of fear. She bent to scoop the wrapped from the floor, her fingers catching on the material as it snagged on the metal shard it was caught on.

It read: Templar; Special Issue in thick black letters on its cover, the packaging only just been torn apart, she could see other fragments of the same, blank white paper of the wrapper scattered across the mesh.

Beside the weapon, a black shape sat waiting on a console top, its knees bent to allow the thing to sit on its haunches. One arm rested on one knee, a large metal scythe hanging from armored fingers while the other was outstretched in the same way, except without the scythe. It was if it had opened its arms to greet her or more, it put Zorin in mind of the grim reaper statues which watched over the graveyards of her home town. And there, midst the black, a single visible eye cracked open, its white standing out midst the black as a green iris blazed down on her, accusingly and horribly aware of who she was.

"My dear, you should really stay out of the Mortals' heads"

* * *

The bridge was screaming maelstrom of bullets and black magic as Lyra was pulled through the thick entrance bulkhead. 50th Columnists, their faces covered, were sprinting for cover beside the large consoles as they overturned the metal tables to gain a good firing position. Captain Brent, his head towering above the other soldiers was yelling orders as the small German squad tasked with guarding the bridge opened fire, their machine guns tearing holes in the tables and chairs, Lyra and the squad were hiding behind.

"Damn it…!!" Brent dropped down into cover as Pike pulled himself into a high alcove beneath the bridge platform, his own long, scoped rifle tearing a hole in a enemy soldier's face and spreading the inside of his head across the surrounding consoles. Headless the body slumped down into the dust as another man, Wilson stencilled onto his black helm dropped back into shelter after catching one German in the shoulder and sending him wind-milling back into his colleagues. Beside him, Corporal Godfrey was snapping another ammo cartridge back into the breach of his weapon as more and more bullets tore holes in his flimsy cover. "….where the hell is Wrathwell when you need him!!"

Lyra ducked low as a shot threatened to remove her head from its shoulders and ran a finger across the surface of the desk. The single digit began to curve round, tracing the shape of a circle before, in quick succession, slashed across the metal. Around them, the other soldiers dropped to the floor as a well placed grenade threatened to dislodge their own shaky for cover for good as Lyra continued on, ignorant of the imminent danger she was in. A circle began to glow as she repeated the manoeuvre, a warm orange light which began to burn, the stench of hot metal emanating from its surface.

"Runecraft…" Brent murmured behind his mask as that same peppermint scent over took the metallic odour. Lyra smiled wanly as perspiration began to run from her forehead as she at last drew her fingers across quickly in quick, slashing movements. The racket stopped as if some one had pulled the plug on a wireless, an eerie hush settling over the war torn bridge.

It had indeed stopped as Brent rose to his feet. Bullets hung in air, their paths halted by a thick, rippling thing which hung in the way. German soldiers stood in awe, their mouths open as in fear and surprise, they watched their bullets slowly turn round and round in the air. At his feet, Lyra was still tracing, her face greying as she pressed more and more on the metal, her finger seeming to pass beyond the grey surface as if melting through. She completed the circle with ease, her finger slashing across, once, twice before she halted. Then, with an air of finality, drew as single line straight through the heart of the circle, along the central line.

Air blew out, and silence suddenly became deafening as the shield blew out. Brent felt the cold breath of something waiting beyond the veil of reality, his eyes failing to behold the sight as windows blew out into the freezing cold night beyond. German soldiers, or at least what remained of them, dropped to their knees, their now bare bones shattering as rags fluttered from their corpses.

Lyra gave a strange noise, half way between a bubbling, gleeful squeak and a tired groan before slumping forward onto her knees, her pistol dropping from loose fingers. Brent wasted no time, pulling his shoulders up from their positions as the wind cut through the smashed bridge like a knife. Consoles lay abandoned, their owners gone having fled up into the officers' quarters which were only accessible from the bridge, and for that matter where Brent was going next. Fanning out, it was easy to track the devastation as the soldiers moved gingerly round scattered skeletons and their leering ghoulish grins or in some cases, large piles of ash.

"Nowt here Sergeant" Pike signalled to the others as Brent shook his head, bending to lift Lyra from the floor.

"It has been a while since I last saw a rune of that variety…" Brent brushed the sheepish looking lieutenant roughly "…and I guess you are not exactly the strongest of mages, seeing as such a simple rune would cause you to collapse."

"Winslow…" Lyra was a gasping dust covered wreck as she clawed a bandage from her first aid kit, wrapping the white material round a burnt and bleeding finger; the same finger which had traced the odd shape in the metal table. It was still there, a scorched black outline in the metal, seeming to have been carved into the surface itself. "…Winslow tried to teach me. Then told me I was of little value in that department and instead stick to the Library, where I was of some use. Barbed Shield is the only one I know. That, and the symbol for watching dark."

There was a slight shudder in the deck as each of the men had a mental image of a crudely drawn eyeball with a long tail. Below, the snow still fell and the moon continued to glow, picking out each rivet and girder in sparking white. It blew in the window too, the scattering of white flakes dusting the abandoned work stations and scattering the ash of the fallen over the padded, quickly freezing seats. Brent shivered as Godfrey and Wilson both snapped another ammo cartridge into their semi automatic rifles. Pike gripped the thick lip of the command bridge and clambered up onto the second level of the bridge. The Command Platform was a bare plateau rising above the crowded work stations where the rest of the 50th Columnists stood. Here, a bronze eagle had been stencilled into the floor, a large swastika gripped in its claws and a padded arm chair dwarfed the furthest point of the platform. It was empty, frost beginning to flow across the rich red of the upholstery. And behind that, a bulkhead door which still bore the marks of forced entry.

"The soldiers guard this place were streched thin…" Brent stirred the debris which covered many of the consoles with an armoured hand "…I guess the troops still willing to fight have been forced back to the weapon chambers"

"Or executed."

Pike dropped low and ran a hand over the red padding, his eyes fixed on the single glittering console which stood beside it. It was a warped, burnt thing, ice encasing its every surface as dials were frozen in place, buttons covered with a layer of ice an inch thick. It was, in all cases, completely inoperable. Any attempt to activate the device with force would have shattered the casing and damaged its delicate interior. Someone obviously had tried, a large boot print was carved into its surface, the slim dials and buttons were in a state of disrepair and; this caught Corporal Pike's eye, a large shiny red button.

"Found the Firing control Sarge…" he tapped the console as the others pulled themselves up, the Luftwaffe obviously had not though of investing in stairs from the lower bridge portion "…its been iced. The Commanding officers must have found the machine had gone bust and left. It would appear that there's a secondary firing control elsewhere on board."

"Sounds usual…" Sergeant Brent bent down to closely inspect the shattered console "…any ideas, corporal?" One of the other columnists spoke up, a machine gun hanging loosely from two leather straps. The word Connor had been stencilled in large spidery text onto the top of his helm and a white, easy to see shamrock adorned his right shoulder pad.

"Sods law se's that they went that way Sarge…" he spoke with an Irish lilt, Lyra stooping low, a single bare hand running over the smashed box. "…but I expect the second red shiny button, if they have one, will be next to the bomb, if it is a bomb. It just would seem logical, really"

"Which the other Templar knights are dealing with…" Already, through the small opened doorway which lead from behind the commanding officer's chair was an echoing clanking crimson lit corridor were the echoing ring of metal on metal and the shriek of pain from many mouths. "…our best bet is to apprehend the human members of this ship and halting them from rallying. I believe…" Brent took one quick look at the bulkhead door and the signs of battle, the door obviously been ripped from its hinges with the amount of dents which covered its surface "…that what is happening through there is not our fight for now. Class Scyre individuals are best left alone."

* * *

The door hissed open with a cloud of steam, harker taking a careful step back, a hand resting warningly on the stiletto blade strapped to her back. Nothing moved except in the dark space beyond, where glowing green glass cylinders were mounted on the walls as thick metal pipes ran from joints on their tops. The all flowed inward to an even darker shadow which reared above the many chains which ran from the ceiling. Nothing moved in that space, except the ebb and flow of the eldritch material within the pipes and glass tubes.

Harker's thin shadow ran across many chains which hung from metal brackets up in the dark above. They clinked in the slight breeze which passed through the opened door at the elf's back. There were no signs of life, no chairs adorned the room or any recognisable consoles. Harker paused, her golden pupils distending to form thin cat like lines which expanded to deal with the complete lack of light. Unlike the other labs, there were no alarms just those busy silences which were normally reserved for factory warehouses where noise only just managed to break through.

She could hear nothing, the muscles in the side of her head twitching as her ears flicked beneath her red hair, another elvish thing, which put the other templars' in mind of a prowling cat. That, and strange pupils which were, like her comparison, cat like.

"What do we have in here?"

"Weapon research…" she whirled round, her knife tearing from its scabbard. Strauss, his uniform creased, his lapels torn where he'd ripped the iron eagles and swastikas from the grey fabric, stood waiting at the door, his hand holding halting the door from its steady creeping advance "…zey vould not allow ze rank unt file soldiers into zeze zections"

"What are you still doing here!! I told you to leave. This is not the place for men with morals"

"You saved my life; I have some honour, even when vorking vor zuch pigs…"

"You should leave; this truly isn't your business"

He met her eyes. She could see him start with surprise when he glimpsed the golden irises and the slit pupils. The way her hair seemed to grow and recede while he watched, the way the skull carved into the haft of her sword seemed to glare at him. And that face mask, it seemed to flow with a life of its own. The carving seemed to flow with some unseen life as he watched. It wasn't major things, but he felt as though the many faces of the angels were all turning to look directly at him.

"I am of some use. You have little knowledge of zis ship"

Harker took a quick glance at the surrounding darkness. "Yes, you may have a point…" it had been all guess work up to this point, it had been lucky this was the only door ajar in the complex of high gantries, leaking pipes and deep shadow. "…but what the hell is kept in here?"

Something rumbled in the darkness, a horrible green glow began to rip through the shadow as something rose from the black. There was the murmur of electricity and darker things in the back of Harker's mind as a chill exploded into being.

"Vhat did you do?" Strauss raised his rifle as a deeper shadow rose from the black.

"Nothing…" Harker took a step back "…that wasn't me". It smelt, Fey. That freezing scent which burned the nostrils and spoke of burning rock and green fire. The basalt columns and infernal machinations of the Fey realms rang resonantly through her head. She backed away, falling against Strauss as a bass rumble rattled the chains and sent the eldritch particles quivering in their tubes. She seized his arms and pushed him through the door into the warm air beyond, her voice panicked and cracking she shrieked out;

"WRATHWELL!!!!! WRATHWELL!!!!!!!!!!"


	15. For all intents and Purposes

For all intents purposes, Lyra was truly of no use. Her character, as it had been for most of her life, had been too carefree, full of flighty thoughts of romance and fairytales. A kind of girliness which caused most to roll their eyes and complain about her complete lack of combat experience, courage or any kind of useful knowledge. Her one true quality, if it could be called that, was femininity. The kind which involved pink, sitting on a sofa with ice-cream, a box of tissues and thick blanket while sobbing through some tinsel town romance as some throaty, overly masculine male whisked some swooning woman off to some far off island for roses, cake and some, non alcoholic beverage. Before riding off into the sunshine to right some wrong with the woman, as ever standing behind waving a tissue. But for real world issues, it was a thing which caused Renfield to slink away and curl up in his bed, his paws over his ears while he waited for the migraine to go away. It was the kind of thing which made Wrathwell roll his eyes and sit, coffee in hand, his feet up on a table and his head buried in a newspaper, refusing to broach the subject when Lyra bought another new dress or pair of shoes.

Shia'ra was no where to be found, her own sense of fashion usually involved hell fire and damnation and any reference to femininity, well….that was complicated. It was more a question of what the dark, robed woman was in the first place, gender never truly came into it. Harker would listen arms folded as the younger human would ramble on about whatever new play was gracing broadway or what actor she had her eye on. And the elf would nod, agree and raise a question or two. But then Harker had never strayed further then Dorian Gray when it came to entertainment so references to some hunk went in one ear and out the other. It was the kind of thing, to be all flowery, which was sorely lacking throughout the ranks of the Templar, unless you were counting Marian, whose own views on the female identity were downright worrying, and Sasha, who was an unbelievable flirt.

So for Seward, the word 'Useless' was banded around quite a bit amongst the older soldiers and the Commanders. But as she stood there, in the hall, her face covered with black, rotting blood of one fallen foe as bullets winnowed by her head and blood, which wasn't her own flowed over her clothes, she felt none of it. She felt….merely a cog in a machine. A soldier perhaps, she'd never truly felt at one with Templar, her own 'gifts' which graced the others were lacking and she'd always tried to keep a low profile within the ranks, sinking just below the radar and letting the 'Heroes' (and she used that term loosely) to take the lead. The Tales, when told by some future generation would be of them, leading the way while she skulked at the back, afraid, alone and in awe of the people that lead.

But war changes people, bloodshed changes people, and the moment Wrathwell had dragged her from the fire, everything had changed, everything was different and the world was a much vaster place. She could feel, the burning 'other' behind her eyes, that stinging, clean sensation which tore her being in two and forced her into worse situations. It desired power, it desired her to do more then stand behind. She'd seen it in her dreams and she'd seen it in the fire that night her home burned around her. A vast, fiery shape amongst the licking flames which cut through them like a knife and flowed about her body like a snake, its indistinguishable face whispering truths to her as it passed her by.

And tonight, things were truly about to change.

She rose up, shrieking, the stock of her pistol shattering a soldier's nose. She slammed her boot into his groin and pushed him aside. The air was full of smoke and gore as vampire soldiers pushed onward, breaking through the doors with superhuman strength, jaws arching back as they surged through the still standing German soldiers, cold and uncaring. They were sprinting very fast, coats blurring as they passed back and forth, mere blurs to Lyra's eyes. But the others, the other members of the squad were capable of keeping track of the soldiers, their own movements becoming quick, clawing and jittery. Vampires fell, ripped apart by silver rounds as they charged forward, their skin receding as they returned to ash, their black blood intermingling with the grey ash.

They were still going though, crawling over their fellows. Brent yanked a grenade free and tossed it forward, the silver rounds held within the metal casing shredding the advancing forces and deafening Lyra with the thunder of its song. And more still came, darting from side rooms followed by the rotting smell of grave-earth. Brent caught the first as he led the way across the wide space of the main hanger and the others ducked down to shelter behind several fallen crates.

He pulled back, the vampire falling forward onto the silver blade of his combat knife before been pushed backward, breaking apart on the metal decking. The roar of machine gun fire set a ringing in her ears, the nightmare of combat setting in. The goggles and gas masks of the men were nightmarishly underlit by muzzle flare as they pushed on, their boots crushing the many bodies which lay at their feet.

"Typical…" Brent dropped into cover, reloading as his spent cartridge clattered across the floor. "…They are a nation of automatons who are lead by a lunatic who looks like Charlie Chaplin. They will never truly give up"

"Nazis are blind and ignorant, believing they are the strongest and best…" Godfrey pulled himself up, spraying a clip into the space beyond before shrinking down "…people who sympathize with them deserve nothing more then a quick drop and sudden stop."

"They all do…" they both rose up, in unison, plunging their knives into the chests of two vampires before wrenching them free and sending them tumbling away "…may the Nazis and all who use their symbols burn forever for their sins." Brent snarled as another crested the top of his cover, his boot heel shattering its jaw and tossing it away. "Wherest is thou honour fiend?"

"Sorely lacking"

Boots thundered through the halls as more rushed to reinforce the rapidly falling back troops. What waited beyond them was nothing but metal and crimson light, the stench of grave earth hanging heavily in the air as around each tied down plane were coffins, their lids warped and torn, most askew as their old occupants charged into the fray.

Pike broke his rifle over the head of one vampire, others running for cover as silver bullets speckled their hides and tore holes in their shelter. The floor pitched violently, tipping Lyra forward as around her, planes, held in position by reinforced chains strained against their bounds.

Brent ducked aside, as more vampires sprinted across the space. Lit by cannon fire, their faces were picked out horribly as their jaws distended like lizards, their mouths dripping with fangs. They were moving faster then the eye could follow, darting back and forth, all with one purpose. To Feed.

One leapt the cover, its claws reaching down to the defenceless human below. A soldier fell away, shredded as blood flowed freely over his black armour and dull grey felt of his uniform. And it was beyond that, Lyra shrieked she was tossed away, skidding across the floor as it pelted into her. Brent was up, baying furiously as his fellow soldier rolled away, his life extinguished. Snarling the vampire twirled around, black coat tails billowing out behind, his claw upraised. And found a silver combat knife embedded in its throat. Brent ducked down, his helmet shattering the creature's ribs as he butted it in the torso. Surprised, it fell back, its claws reaching for the human soldier beneath. Brent didn't let it, wrenching his blade free and planting it firmly in its chest. It fell away gargling, as its skin receded, burning away. Brent pulled away, lamping another which sought to break through their cover. Godfrey emptied his clip into its chest before bringing his boot heel down on its throat.

A grinning maw rose up, teeth glistening in the black as a pale face monster bayed, feral and blood covered beyond the cover. Growling, Brent pushed forward, the vampire's jaws opening outward and upward. He caught the jaws, his fingers digging into the thing's eyes as it pushed onward, knocking the soldier off his feet and dragging his forward, like a fox with a struggling rabbit. Pike brought his rife down its head, the silver cladding sparking and smoking as it impacted on the undead's flesh.

"Get off me you Bastard!!!!" Brent planted his boot in its groin, sending it away squealing as something broke "…Felt that did you, you bastard. You fucking Blood sucking bastard…" he rose from the deck, drawing his knife "…then I'll see you in hell!!!"

He came down on the fallen vampire, dragging a ragged rent across its chest. It died, gargling. A bullet rang off his helmet as he held the bloody knife aloft, the blood dripping freely onto his helmet and running down the gasmask his face contorting behind his mask as around him, his men rose up from the dead bodies to drag him back down.

* * *

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth as the small girl in the arm chair fixed the vast presence in the chair opposite with a gauging stare.

"You expect me to believe that monsters such as Elves, Wyrewolfs, Wizards and Warlocks, Witches and monsters which are all, basically, a fairytale."

"You're very observant for a young girl, but sadly a little blinkered. I'm surprised you're not phased by all this bloodshed."

"Home Schooling…." She said, adjusting her glasses "…father tries to teach me about Vampires as well as much about the real world."

Wrathwell swallowed the last of his sandwich. "You are so young…"

"It is never too early to start"

"You're becoming quite a hunter, at such a young age…" Wrathwell fixed the girl with those deep green eyes "…it is a burden I hope you never have to carry"

"Whatever it is, I'm ready"

Wrathwell shrugged, lacing his fingers and crossing his legs, the scythe leaning against the back of his chair catching the light of the fire as he allowed his mind to wander, down through the floor to the cellars beneath. And that dark door where that brooding, ferocious presence waited and watched, guarded by Shia'ra's own blood, which seethed like some kind of horrible beacon in his mind.

"Vampires…" he took a second, his mind wandering back "…though they are insidious and a threat, you must realise that the world is not restricted to creatures that wander the night and drink blood. However, a threat they are, they must be dealt with and I hope you will continue to realise that. Though please never forget that you are a child…" he cracked his knuckles "…and you do not deserve such a burden your father places upon you."

"Do not lecture me about what my father should or shouldn't do."

He coughed, leaning back in his chair. "So, the Nazis have revealed a rather dark machination in the lower decks and Zorin Blitz, the Nazi leader has retreated to the Engine levels where Harker and I are waiting along with the weapon which will tear a hole in the sky and empty the contents of hell onto the face of the Earth."

"Harker seems a truly fascinating creature and Renfield, why is he so dark?"

"Because he is, I guess, I've served with Al for over a hundred years and he's always seemed to brood, like his brother, I guess. And Harker, she's….Evil, you might say. She's very, very cold, as cold as snow and as pure as darkness…"

"Your grasp of metaphors and descriptive language has much to be desired".

He shot her a rather dark glare "…Alfred is still alive as you ask. Silver has rather…unpredictable effects and seems incapable of killing him. Unlike Werewolves, the Wyre seem inexplicably linked to the Fey realms and share many of its qualities…..and it's weaknesses. That sadly has been bred out of many Wyrewolf bloodlines leading to outcasts of some, though restricted power who can change into the Wyrewolfs many forms but has great weaknesses, namely silver as you've read. A true wolf, a Noble Wolf is nearly impossible to kill"

"That's one thing I'd like to ask…" Integra said "…why is it that the Templar in your story seem indestructible, completely invulnerable against all obstacles which the Nazi regime had no defence against"

"Because we were trained and captured for another purpose. To think we're here to deal solely with Humans and third eye usurpers is rather restrictive. We hunt monsters and monsters are our weakness. Men and dogs no longer apply."

"…and in that fact you can kill other monsters."

"Everyone says you require a man to kill a monster, a hero who'd stand up above the masses and lead the charge. The villain is laid low, the damsel is rescued and the story ends, the people living happily ever after, yadda yadda yadda, the usual predictable crap with princesses and Fairytales. But we are the monsters and we know the monsters we fight, we've seen their faces and they've seen ours. Mortals make poor monster hunters because of that, they are too weak, too corruptible, too fallible. You need a monster to hunt a monster"

"But what are you?" Integra straightened up in her chair, rearranging her night dress as the soldier spoke "…are you pets or servants or are you employees under command of some overbearing overlord?"

"No, I'm paid to do my job, and Winslow knows I can leave when I wish, but I don't. I enjoy killing monsters and I enjoy my job leaving me with little wish to leave. And because of that I have served the Winslow line for a very long time, hundreds of years in fact and I am one of the best, but I am not a true monster."

"What splits you from the others?"

"My….position….was forced upon me around five hundred years ago. I am very much human, be that a little more permanent then most. My ambition is monstrous as is my will power and my mind, but my body, my morals are all quite natural and I assure you. I haven't lost my way and neither have my brethren. I am inexplicably connected to death and, in all senses of the word, it follows in my footsteps."

"There are more of you?" Integra kicked her feet, which were at least a foot from the floor as her curiosity peeked.

"Yes, I've found three more in all. All in the Ranks of the templar too. Winslow's military brain box, the Colonel is one, as if Karakov, though he's more involved with the Russian Nightwatch and Cassandra, Winslow's secretary"

"The Colonel?"

"We don't know his actual name so we refer to him as the Colonel, he is charged with our control, though he is rather eccentric, old age does that to people."

"Dare I ask how old he is?"

"Two hundred years old"

"Oh"

"And then there's Jin, he's a samurai, I met him a long time ago when my travels took me a little further."

"You've been to Japan?"

"Well, five hundred years is a long time to get bored. Some days you just find yourself walking, and then you reach the sea and you think, as you breathe in the salty air, 'what would happen if I turned round and went back', or what would happen if I kept going. So I wandered, got to the Black Sea, kept going, got too the Himalayas, kept going though taking a slight detour…"

Integra raised an eyebrow.

"Well, they're very steep and I'm immortal but I have my limits. But still, I kept going, through India, China, Japan. During that point western visitors weren't allowed so I had to keep a low profile. Got involved in a group of 'Anti Daemon Ninjas', oh boy that was fun"

The sarcasm rang in his voice as Integra smiled, wanly as the other shook his head.

"But I did return, and I did come back to fight. So now I'm here"

The raven croaked on the mantelpiece as it sat back, ruffling its feathers as it watched them its glassy eyes. Integra fixed it with stare, the oily quality of its feathers seemed to glow and shift making it hard to focus on the single ragged shape.

"Just think…" Wrathwell's interlocked fingers formed a spherical shape as he stared intently, his legs crossed as his foot twitched, the shadows seeming to deepen as he sat there, like a King in some forgotten throne as the scythe and the raven became the only two other points visible in the room "…all the stories you've ever read about fairies, monsters and darkness, all the myths and legends, all the lore and cautionary tales you've ever heard in your life, they are all real, all here in the this world and all very much alive. And very, very angry."

* * *

Elves, when thrown, were rather solid objects seeing how thin, lithe and light they appeared. Harker caught Wrathwell in the chest and sent him tumbling back as the monster broke through the lab wall and sent the deck plates juddering. Wrathwell dragged the elf upright as Harker ungainly tried to drag herself clear.

"What the hell did you do!?"

"I swear, I didn't touch anything!!" Harker clamped a hand on Wrathwell's shoulder and leapt backward, sailing out of the range of the vast, metal thing which waited at the far end of the platform. Ryeman hefted his scythe, Harker splaying her fingers across the metal at her feet with the air of a waiting, impatient cat as her eyes narrowed. This was….new. Such a vast, eldritch thing had not pulled itself through the veil for some time. Well, actually, an eyebrow twitched, it had been last Tuesday. Her memory was playing tricks on her yet again as she lent forward, toes curling as she tensed to spring. Still, it was strange to see such an ungainly creature so far above the ground. A Golem, a hulking, smoke spewing industrial nightmare usually preferred dark holes to bright, wide open spaces. Here, it seemed somewhat at home amongst the many pipes and machines, even though it was hundreds of feet above ground.

"If so, then why in feck is there a fecking Golem currently in my combat zone…!!" he waved an arm at the Golem, its inset head turning to fix them with green, glowing eyes as its fists swayed and its chest cavity glowed with a sickly green glow. "…a monster…." He began to laugh, the horrible sound echoing through the halls and surprising the comatose form of Zorin Blitz who was bleeding on the floor at his feet. "...at last"

He allowed the scythe to drop to his waist allowing the weight of the weapon to straighten his arm as the blade took a chunk out of the floor in a shower of sparks. His coat seemed to lengthen, as barbed shadows seemed to slip in and out of sight across his shoulders. The coat, seeming to be at least twice the length it had been originally begun to curl, as if he was walking midst a black fire, their edges gaining an almost silvery quality. Half cast in shadow, his face grim, his eyes closed as he became almost pillar like, the coat boiling around him as the scythe became colourless.

A blazing green pupil ripped through the shadow covered half of his face as a horrifying smile tore his face in two, his square teeth white and like tombstones as his thin lips curled back as a hissing cackle erupted from his dark form.

"The Darwin Enigma is in effect. Control Restrictions are released to Level 3. Controls are released until the target is…." A vast fist attached to a length of chain smashed into his form and tore through him, sending the shadows skittering across the deck. The Golem rumbled as the mechanisms in its arm dragged the carved fist back into its elbow.

"…silenced. May it die alone and in death be consumed by the river…" the shadows boiled up, the dark shape of what was once, Captain Andrew Wrathwell reforming, the scythe still in his grip. "…and I know for a fact that the river is waiting for you. May the 8th gate take you and tear you asunder."

Harker drew her blade, her sword silkily emerging from its scabbard. She halted as a single, shadow clad hand blocked her passage. One green eye swivelled in its socket to fix her with an intense and gauging stare.

"This is not your fight She-Elf"

"Captain…!!" the Golem reared a thick carved fist again, the chain whirring in its arm as it charged to throw "…you cannot expect me to just stand aside while you fight alone!"

"You should not worry…" they both darted aside as the fist shredded the deck plates once again, Zorin crawling away, her scythe broken as warped at her side "…death follows me, Hell won't have me and Heaven hates me. I am permanent and for all intents and purposes, I will not die"

Harker landed lightly on a high girder as Wrathwell swirled aside, his boot clamping down on the chain as the Golem tried to roll it back in. The golem was powered by eldritch energy, it was clear to see the markings on its thick barrel chest and see the green glow of energy through its skeletal ribcage chest armour. Powered by something which closely resembled dragon skin which made up the heart. Here, the metal chassis was made up of several synthetic materials of human make, several pistons had been added and the power outlets strapped to its back had 'high voltage' painted on them. The thing had defiantly been dug up, dirt still clung to several of its surfaces and rust covered its fingers and its joints. And the way it walked too, it screeched as metal plates rubbed together. It was old, very old and very badly put together. Wherever they'd found it, it had obviously been in many pieces.

The Golem wrenched its arm back, the chain coming loose and catapulting the Templar forward. His form blurred as he charged, his scythe embedding into its arm as he dragged himself up, the scythe twirling round as he cut a rent in its chest, green mist pouring vilely from the hole.

It swotted at him, its huge balled fists tearing a hole in the deck as the inner workings screamed under the intense movement, the coolant systems seemed to be failing as sparks vented from the torso. Wrathwell darted aside, the scythe tearing a hole in it's underarm. He leapt up, slamming his fist into the gap torn by his blade. Wires came loose, the Golem falling ungainly to one side as its arm spasmed, sending a trail of black liquid across the metal decking. That tossed Wrathwell high into the air, his feet catching a metal gantry before tossing himself forward, coat billowing.

A fist caught him in mid air, sending him tumbling. Bone tore and skin ruptured as he skidded across the deck. The Golem, its left arm hanging limply reared up, its fists whirring as the chain link firing mechanism whirred into life, aiming to pulverise the Templar knight where he lay several metres away.

Wrathwell rose from the floor, cracking his shoulders as he pulled himself back into being. With a snap of his fingers, the scythe broke from a nearby debris pile, wheeling across the noise filled space. He caught it, his fingers barely slipping along its well carved haft.

The Golem threw its fist, the right arm shooting forward as the chain links held in its elbow clattered free at a furious pace. Wrathwell turned, his hands rising up as the thick chunk of metal hurtled toward him, blurring as the metal increased speed. Sound and movement stopped, Wrathwell's short coat billowing out behind him as the air rushed by him as the chain bunched up behind the fist, its flight halted. The strain he was under was apparent, his boots digging into the floor as the fist forced him back by several metres.

Aries recoiled in his hand, an incendiary charge tearing from the gun's muzzle. The shot tore the chain from the golem's elbow and sent the creature tumbling back, its ball like head struggling to turn to view the severed arm on one side. It was desperately trying to retrieve the fist, which Wrathwell dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Aries embedded another shot its torso, the Golem stumbling back under the pressure. It was confused; scared perhaps, its green eyes struggling to focus on the single, tall human that stalked the floor. Blood was flowing back into his cut's skin re-knitting as his bloodied face rehealed.

In one hand, the scythe twirled; the blade thrumming ominously as he stepped over the ruined floor. The Gantry had held, amazingly, the bolts were still intact, though the floor was warped and burnt. Far below the coils which poured power into the Weapon still glowed, portals in their sides lighting the metal around it in that same eerie green light.

* * *

Harker dropped to the decking her boots barely making a sound as she kept pace with the German Kommandent. Zorin was dragging herself along, painfully and slowly as she left a trail of blood behind her. He uniform was creased, blood running freely from her sleeves and mixing in with her once perfect blonde hair.

"Where are you going, Zorin?" Harker cooed as the Vampire pulled herself up onto a leather chair, over looking the peerless, obsidian side of the Weapon. She lay forward, hands running over the console before her. And stopped as a silvery blade pressed to her throat.

"Vor you…" Zorin hacked and coughed as a bloody spittle covered her lips "…ze var ist over"

"I doubt that…" Harker wrenched her head back, her own golden eyes cold and clean "…the Nazis were never meant to rule, how ever much your furher believed that he could. You are bound to fail, like all humans, in hellfire of your own making. Greed will always consume you, as will war…" she leant close as Zorin gurgled "…I sometimes wonder, maybe if I wipe humanity from existence, this universe would be a better place. But then, Wrathwell urges me to be moral, and I always listen to my Captain." The last section of the sentence held a degree of sarcasm as the Elf lent back.

"Vhat are you?"

Harker lent close, hissing as the German Kommandent bubbled and murmured, blood rising in her throat.

"I….am a Queen"

* * *

Harker had always known.

There had never been any doubt about what she was and power she could muster. There were no mental blocks and no memory loss. She could remember everything very clearly, which obviously sent small shivers tingle down her spine and through her delicately strung nerves.

The hunt, the calling of hounds and harsh call of Templar knights as they stalked the Germanic woodlands, their pistols loaded and their dogs sniffing the ground, their pelts run through with silver. And she could remember hiding, the millions of souls she'd stolen over the hundreds of years she'd wandered the forest paths acting as a slight barrier against the minds of men who plotted her downfall.

But they'd seen through the myriad shades of white and black and torn down her illusions, those hounds dragging at her skirts as she ran through the cold snow. And then the binding kiss of the iron chain nets, the harsh voices once again plaguing her ears and then….

Well, all that was after that was pain and fire.


	16. Rise of the Red Army

_Right, an interesting point for my readers. Rather then represent a German accent by over using Z and V in sentences, Russian soldiers will actually speak Russian, a new twist on the whole fiction. However, I must warn you that I am not completely sure the translation is true, so if any one can speak Russian and what is said doesn't make sense then I apologise._

_

* * *

_

Our Way will be long

Look More Cheery Soldier

Our Regimental banner is curling, is curling.

Our Commanders are ahead.

The air was filled with ash as Berlin burned. The many colours of the once warlike nation flared, their crimson folds engulfed in flames as the soldiers below lit them with burning torches. Brown folds of trench coats caught the wind as heavily armored Red Army soldiers sprinted through the ruins, slaughtering any Nazi soldier which resisted as around them the rank and file conscripts filtered through, their cries panicked but mocking toward the rapidly retreating German soldiers.

Soldiers - В путь! В путь! В путь!

And for you my darling girl,

Here is the field address of my unit

Farewell, the trumpet calls us.

Soldiers in the Campaign!!

The fire caught the crossed hammer and sickle which rested in the burning red folds of the standard as the burning wind tossed its folds, the men carrying it onward, their faces lit by the fire which set the sky above alight. Mortars whined through the air, buildings coming thundering down as the high explosives tore holes in the retreating, rearguard action of the panicked SS battalion guarding the Reichstag. Snipers, wrapped in long grey cloaks sat, waiting within the burned walls of the top floor of some house or tower, picking off any soldier stupid enough to stick his head over the parapet of sand bags and defensive lines. The civilians who usually occupied the houses either fled or quaking in fear in their homes as burly soldiers broke down their doors, burst through their windows or knelt in lightly upholstered bedrooms, scoped rifles resting on window sills.

Every Soldier is a brave Fellow

He looks like a falcon when in formation

We will become related to Glory

And earn honour through combat

Soldiers - В путь! В путь! В путь!

And through the trenches and back alleys, more soldiers ran on, their rifles blasting apart men who burst from doorways or behind sandbags. And the Russians fell too, their dead littering the streets and the sidewalks, the alleys and the ruptured stairs. Tanks rattled by on rusted treads, blasting any and all that tried to rise up. Germans screamed as flames engulfed them from sprinting flamer units, their own guns igniting the flamer's fuel tanks and sending the soldier into a pain wracked inferno.

Let our enemies remember it.

We are not threatening but saying;

We crossed, have crossed half the world

And we'll do it again if it is necessary.

Gore covered soldiers walked in shock amongst the hellish scenes, questing for fallen comrades, their weapons or rather more macabre, pieces of themselves. They were cut down by well placed machine gun nests before them too were gone in a blast as Russian soldiers poured volley after volley of missiles into the hunkered down troops. And as ever, a wear on their moral, the rumbling dirge of the Russian soldiers as they sang and yelled over the crackling flames;

And for you my darling girl,

Here is the field address of my unit

Farewell, the trumpet calls us.

Soldiers in the Campaign!!

Commander Karakov of the 50th Nightwatch Battalion slammed hard into the burnt out brick wall as machine bullets peppered the walls around him, shredding several soldiers who failed to spot the nest at the far end of the street.

"Мы имеем их на пробеге. Глупые сыновья шлюх вырыли себя в миленькое отверстие там (We have them on the run. _Stupid sons' of whores have dug themselves into a nice little hole down there_)...." He gathered his coat around him as other soldiers hunkered down around him. From behind hooded lids, his sparking green irises continued to burn, even through the falling ash "….Alexei, Пойдите с пятью другими и пробуйте создать их положение!" _("Alexi, take 5 others and flank their position!")_

"Да Командующий!" the men choruses as several peeled off, becoming shadows amongst the fallen buildings. Karakov took a quick glance at the dead at his feet, his long angular face falling into shadow, putting the soldiers around him in mind of a waiting hawk.

"Отдых в мире (Rest in Peace)…" he glanced up, nodded where a door had once stood. Beyond the smoking portal at his left was the remains of a blackened alley, the smoke hanging along the brick walls. "…Андрей, возьмите остальных, которые оставляют. Подавите, сохраните спокойствие и круг вокруг позади того гнезда. Для Матери Россия мой Товарищ!" _(Andrei, take the rest left. Keep down, keep quiet and circle round behind that nest. For Mother Russia my Comrade!)_

"Для Страны Матери, Командующий!" He nodded, closing his eyes briefly as the men passed him by, their voices full of triumph as above the roar of shells and rumble of gun fire, the mens voices were all gathered in song as the red flag flew high above the abandoned streets. He could make out the words, a song he was so familiar with. But now was not the time for song. The Dull grey shape of the Zeppelin still hung over head, its rounded nose beginning to list as gouts of smoke erupted from its underside. Engines struggled as the entire craft began to sink, its balloon creasing, as if still trying to resist gravity.

He seized his long rifle from the ground at his feet and pushed it back over his shoulder as on the horizon, lit by the flames far below, a few metallic shapes began to filter through the night sky. The drone of engines was barely audible over the thunder of shells, but it was there, quiet but persistent, pushing through the noise of battle. Karakov squinted at the flashes of shadow which refused to break from the sky and be easily registered. Whatever they were, whatever their purpose, they were coming and he had little doubt that their intentions would be rather dark.

Maybe, he thought as his trench coat caught on the blazing hot wind and dried his greased back blonde hair. Maybe it was time to allow Gravities wish and dash the airship on the ground which rose ever so hungrily up for it.

And now we come

Days of Study

Days of Work

In order to then Flourish!

Soldiers - В путь! В путь! В путь!

And there, over the noise of war, someone was whistling.

* * *

The cold polish air cut through the streets of Warsaw like a knife and sliced at the lone figure who hurried through the streets. Captain Nina 'Rapunzel' Mierov, so called for her mane of blonde hair which hung down well below her waist, dug another dog end from behind her ear and lit a match, illuminating for a split seconds the thin, pale features which made up her face. The hooked nose, the long jaw and protruding chin and those grey-blue eyes. She shivered, pulling the thick grey overcoat about her. It wasn't cold, not by Moscow standards anyway, but something darker lurked here, something she and the men around her didn't like. It watched from all the dark windows, that horrible waiting presence of something unseen, something unknown.

The kind of feeling you got when you walk in dark places, that same feeling you got, as if someone was following you in the shadow. She shouldered the scoped rifle, nodding to the surrounding soldiers, their hoods pulled up around their helmets, hiding their faces.

"Мове оут" her clipped Russian tones were muffled by the large grey scarf strung about her shoulders, smoking boiling freely from her mouth. She sneezed as soon as the men were out of earshot, having a cold was certainly not fun. And the interior of the scarf, vaguely damp admittedly from her dribbling nose was not going to be helping her already overstretched immune system. They passed through shadow, most ducking down under the warped lampposts which littered the empty, dead streets. Five men in all. Good, she narrowed her eyes, five always seemed like a good number to her. The Nightwatch specialized division always worked small, unlike their more warlike counterparts in England. That, and because the Russian War Office couldn't find the funds to support such an obscure organization.

They peeled off into a wide courtyard, splitting up as each soldier hunkered down beneath low walls, fallen columns or readied themselves behind a single burnt out car which was the only other feature of the wide space. Allied planes had torn apart this area, the preliminary bombardment to allow easy troop movement had removed all resistance from most of the built areas allowing easy passage to Russian soldiers. Wave up wave of bombers and mortar fire had smashed down into the several industrial districts which bordered onto the facility and engulfed the city in a cloud of dust. To prevent any losses of 'relevant' personnel, no troop movement was allowed till the dust had settled. Here, however, it was amazing the building still stood, lit by the moon which glared down upon them from the starry sky. Several pieces of fallen masonry revealed a metal core, one of the men tossing her a piece. Reinforced, obviously, nearly all of the windows were smashed but the trims remained, metal holding the windows' shape.

"_This is a Dead Place Human" _A sibilant whisper echoed through the courtyard. Both in their minds as well as in the empty air about them, the voice seeming to travel exceedingly well even over the light breeze.

"Quiet, Vampire" Nina's voice was clouded with a heavy Russian accent, be that slightly bunged, she sniffed back a single droplet of snot which clung to the end of her nose and buried her mouth in the scarf. Shadows seemed to be circling them, barbed horrendous shadows.

"_There is nothing in this place for you, Mortal"_

"We have little Quarrel with you vampire, I would reveal yourself now before we flatten this place with silver shells. Lets see you crawl away with silver shrapnel speckling your hide."

"_Oh my, my…" _the mocking voice seemed vaguely disappointed _"…but why would I do that, playing with your little toy soldiers is just so….fun"_

"Alucard, we know who you are. This is no times for games"

"_If so, then why is the Russian anti-lycan division deployed deal with a Nazi Laboratory, especially one involving…hmmm…vampires. Shouldn't you be off fighting Doggies, little Girl."_

"And what do the British know that means that they're this far into Europe?"

There was a laugh, the shadows seeming to thin. And there, at a broken wooden door at the far end of the courtyard, a small girl with long black hair materialized. She was carrying a short, stubby tommy-gun, to big for any human child to carry or fire, for that matter. And she was watching them with red slitted eyes, smiling to expose the overlarge canines behind the thin, white lips.

"Touché, I won't tell if you don't"

"Neither will I"

* * *

Snow still fell in that strange white forest beneath the green moon. It caught the leaves and the needles of the upright trees and settled gently in the downy carpet of ice and needles. Neat shoes barely left a mark on the snow as Lord Gregory Winslow paced through the ever so silent forest. Greene followed, his hands deep in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from thin lips as his neatly parted hair was run through with thin threads of silver frost.

Dark birds moved through the trees, slowly keeping pace with the two men, but leaving a safe distance between them as the Raven cawed warningly from its lofty perch. Leading, Winslow barely looked up as the bird called out, he instead reached down into a deep pocket and withdrew a thin paper bag. He dug his fingers into the sugar coated lumps inside and tucked a humbug between his teeth. The Hard boiled sweet vanished quickly as he wrapped his tongue around it.

Greene shook his head as he was offered the simple paper bag. Winslow tutted, seeming vaguely disappointed by the refusal. This didn't last long and they continued on, their shoes breaking the crisp snow. He caught a snowflake between finger and thumb, his fingers immediately melting through the crystalline object. There was a stirring of branches and a raven alighted a few metres from their position, its eyes snapping round to focus on the two men.

"It's able to follow us here?"

"She…" Winslow tossed a humbug to the bird, discarding the water droplet with a shake of his hand. The Raven cawed happily as it scooped up the sweet and took flight, alighting several metres away in a thin conifer. It greedily dragged the humbug back and forth, trying to make some indentation, in the hard sugar, watching Greene with one beady eye all the while. "…she prefers it if you refer to her as 'She' rather than 'it'."

"Whatever. It just reminds me a little of a poem I once read..." Greene eyed the bird. The intelligence held in each pupil was unnerving at best and it was watching him with a look which almost seemed human, for such a small animal. But then, seeing the usual crowd who frequented his Bar, it wasn't surprising to him that that small creature could hold something more human. But the Templar were different. They had purpose, though it was slightly mercenary when you looked a little closer at the small print, which was worrying for an individual as himself.

Julian Greene or Jools as Wrathwell called him, was one of the few that profited from the Templars' strict regulations when it came to the control of the 'Understreets', an area of Gnarly ground where Fey and Third Eye Usurpers lived alongside each other. He owned, and ran the black market, smuggling what he could from the Fey realms with the help of some rather kleptomaniac creatures, the Hobgoblins. Smelly, short and hooked nosed individuals, the Hob were very partial to stealing anything nailed down, including the nails. And they ran a rather good business, ferrying eldritch crystals to the ever waiting Templar.

And smuggling……well, smuggling was always a dirty business but it needed funding.

"…what will you, bird be quothing tonight."

"Hmm?" Winslow wrapped his gums around another boiled sweet.

"No, nothing…" Greene eyed the bird balefully "…doesn't matter"

They walked on; the raven still perched on branch behind them as it hungrily rolled the humbug over and over, trying to scratch some of the sugar off its hard surface. Birds, lacking the mouth parts to be able to truly enjoy boiled sweets would be struggling with such an object and there, under that cold elven moon, this would also be the case. Well, Almost…

As they moved out of its range of vision. The raven coughed, its beak distending beyond more then thought possible. The sweet disappeared and the Raven, looking vaguely pleased with it self, took flight into the frozen forest, a black rag once again on the snow flecked air.

Some distance away, snow continued to drift through the ever silent forest, the white flakes slowly settling on the dark trees as needles became coated with the freezing white. A single blue flower still stood above the snow. Tucked into the roots of a tall conifer, the tiny crystalline flower shook in the ever so slight breeze which passed through the trees and set the whippier branches a-quiver.

Darkness wallowed, the chill becoming deeper as baleful shadows seemed to become barbed and elongated. The flower, still nestling in the roots of the tree shrunk down into the snow, Before it was lost under a vast black paw. All that followed was green fire and black iron.

There were two men stepping into the clearing, who waited in the patches of moonlight on the freezing snow.

"No Dogs…" Greene murmured as Winslow saluted the waiting men.

"What?"

"There were sled tracks back there but no sled visible here. Someone has been here before we got here."

"A trapper, perhaps, there are always some humans who wander the 'Fence'"

"Oh, so we're calling it 'Fence' now. When did it stop been the 'place which looks like a forest but actually is a barrier between our world and the next'" Greene lit another thin cigarette.

"When Knight Captain Wrathwell pointed out it could be of more use if it was a little shorter. A fence, perhaps, look…" Winslow glared at the thin cigarette hanging from the other man's lips "...how many of those disgusting things have you had since we've got here."

Greene shrugged "Ten?"

"Those things are disgusting, how can you smoke so many?"

"Well, lets just say, they ain't killed me yet, Old Man…" Greene smiled grimly as he took a long drag and exhale a large white cloud. "…and I've been around, well, lets say, for some time…" he nodded to several of the approaching men "…and when did you start taking orders from that Aegis lowlife."

"Andrew Wrathwell is one of the best monsters hunters I have in my employment…"

"Oh is that what you're calling it now, employment, making them feel as if they've got a choice." Greene said, his voice hard as Winslow closed his eyes, as if tired for second

"Captain Wrathwell is in my employment. He's wandered off before and come back because he likes his job. He is my safeguard for when the others feel as though they want to escape, even if they know the rest of the world will reject them for what they are."

"I guess you're still in the rigors of the Monster, Man and Dog enigma…" Greene rocked back on his heels as Winslow dug his hands into his pockets "…Or do you believe yourselves beyond that?"

"That question rarely comes into the equation. They seem happy with been referred to as Templar, and in that respect be completely separate from any other label. However most refer to themselves as been 'paid'."

"Its always money…" Greene grimaced as the cold bit once again "…sometimes the Templar can be referred to common mercs, not some holy order"

"To refer to us as holy is about as close to referring to Iscariot as been 'right'. Holy orders are one thing, the Knight Templar were one thing. The war office merely refer to us as Templar, the outsiders refer to us as Templar. Only the men use the word, 'Knight'…"

"But the question is…" Greene murmured "…are we Knights?"

"We were of the Old Worlds…" Gregory Merlin Winslow nodded grimly "…but not of this world. We just stand between what is old and what is new and guard the 'new' world. We'll never sit round a roundtable. We will never wear true swords or be knighted by the Queen or King. We will not be referred to as anything. Just like the Fey, you and I are both reserved for fairytales and Conspiracy theories. But we are not 'Knight' Templar."

He saluted to the small group of men who gathered in the small clearing. "Greetings to you, soldiers."

"Greetings, Sir Winslow." There was a murmur of voices throughout the group.

"And how do we find ourselves on this cold evening?" Winslow tugged at his gloves as around him the forest creaked and rumbled under the weight of snow.

"Very well, comrade." General Pietrov of the Nightwatch blew a steaming breath as the man's winkled but wide jawed face poked out through the thick coat of fur he chose to wear, what appeared to be a large grey cat resting on his head to hide his bald head. He bore the crossed sickle and hammer of the Russian military. However, unlike the usual symbol, a spread eagled bird held the hammer and sickle in gilded claws. He had a large battle axe strapped to his back, the thick parchment covered handle catching in the breeze as he spoke.

Beside him, an older man clutched a staff with gnarled fingers and chewed at his false teeth. From behind the creased and wrinkled face however, the eyes sparkled with a powdery blue fire. He was dressed in a sharp grey suit, a black tie tucked into his jacket, a flash of metal jumping from the black folds.

"Drumknott, it is nice to see that you still remain in the world of the living…"

"Spare the manners with me, boy. Your little organization is beyond the wills of the Freemasons and the true Templar and I have little affection for your collection of monsters. So spare your kind words or I'll tear your tongue out."

Winslow's smile didn't leave his face as the Freemason gently ran a hand over an amulet suspended around his neck. A crossed setsquare and compass caught his eye as it turned in the breeze. The Templar symbol, his templar symbol was in the same image but instead depicted a raven seizing the set square in gilded talons. The differences didn't end there, the Stonemasons, or freemasons had long laid down their swords in pursuit of other goals and abandoned their knightly backgrounds. They instead sought money, to be the elite of society. And so it became more a gentlemen's club, a world away from the monstrous Templar and the Knights of the Round Table. Some said they were the remnants of the Templar order. Winslow doubted that as he watched the man with half closed eyes. That staff he carried was no more a trinket and the air with which he moved was far too aloof, especially to walk among the group the rest of the world referred to as 'The Fallen'. However some did offer a service then was highly elitist. Most prided themselves in information gathering. Dusty, academic pipe smokers, the last knightly remnants of the Freemasons had a lot to live up to.

"Time grows exceedingly thin, Winslow…" Piertrov spoke up as Winslow eyed the stonemason balefully "…we are at war and yet we still meet here. My men tell me that your soldiers have joined the fray and are pushing deep into Berlin…" he blew a cloud of steam into the freezing "…I know of your monetary reasons for fighting for this…cause…but I am curious. How much is the British war office paying you?" The Russian's tone was guarded and thick, his native tongue sounding strongly as he spoke. The Nightwatch head, the leader of the Russian Anti-lycan division, those tasked with the destruction of Werewolves and any such followers was to be feared and links to the Russian KJB and the Red Army was a position of great fear. The lengths the soldiers went through to get the job done was horrifying at best and the pictures that had slowly filtered from Russian combat zones were, in fact, awful. The Templar left Totems, sure, slaughtering men left, right and centre. They were bloody and efficient, like the Russians. However the Templar were monsters and monsters do what they are bred to do. The Russians however, were simple men, they had orders to give this fear. There was no choice, no mercy just the men and their leaders, who ordered the slaughter. The rot, unlike Winslow's own shaky morals, was to the core with the Nightwatch. He'd met some of the soldiers once. The Immortal Karakov. The sniper and werewolf killer Rapunzel and off course, those dirty little secrets behind the cloaks.

"I also received reports that several of your little Freaks have been released as well." Winslow snapped as the Russian smiled widely, his face folding like a frog.

"And, you pump a combat drug into your soldiers breathing apparatus to increase their reaction speed. I have adjusted a few of my men. You and me Winslow, are very alike. Rules and rights have always to be….interchanged."

Winslow ignored the statement. Now was certainly not the time to point out past differences. Unlike Iscariot, the Nightwatch had always been on their side, whatever their methods and for now, he preferred to be at least on speaking terms with the short fur clad man.

"This little issue revolves around a little enigma my men found while investigating and old abbey in Norway. An artifact of great power, codenamed 'The Box'…"

"That is supposed to be able to tap directly into the dead realms and in turn pull things through." Drumknott nodded sagely.

"Supposedly, our intelligence was actually incorrect and what we actually found was a hole into the 'Borderlands' where death and fey meet."

"And a Wisp was pulled through rather then a rather angry undead thing the Nazis were hoping for. Such a menial creature was of no true use though our spies tell us that there was a ripple of interest amongst the Nazi High Command…" Drumknott said, Pietrov nodding in agreement as the moon glared solemnly down on the forest clearing. "…the Undead Research institute appears to have branched out into Fey studies though I must admit, it is not as extensive as the Vampire research station. However, this maybe because we're not seeing the full picture. There is a lot of ground to cover and in these times, things can drop below the radar quite easily. For example, Hemmler."

"What is that…" Pietrov spoke up as Greene whistled quietly under his breath "…some kind of research institute?"

"We don't know…" Winslow cut across Drumknott as the older man opened his mouth to speak "…all we reach is dead ends but it or whatever 'it' is bears some relationship to the Lezte Battion. However that link is tenuous, it was briefly mentioned by a rather interesting individual, a Catboy." Pietrov smirked as Greene shook his head "…one of my field operatives reported the incident to the War Office as soon as her plane got in. By what was said, Hemmler is a man or some kind of being of some description."

"Or perhaps the Major and his freakshow menagerie don't know everything…" Pietrov nodded as Drumknott spoke "…but I wonder sometimes If I can here cogs whirring behind all this. That there is something here which is going on behind all this façade. Something beyond just what we see in reality."

"I believe…" Greene spoke at last, his arms folded and a lighted cigarette clutched in thin fingers "…from what my sources tell me, that the Major, throughout all his madness is actually listening to another voice, other then the one in his head. And this one is whispering rather dark things beyond that of War, perhaps hinting at an endless war which unlife and life cannot provide."

"What is this dirty smuggler doing here!?" Drumknott sneered, Greene looking a little hurt as the other spoke.

"I have just as much right to be here as Winslow you old co…"

"That's enough…" Winslow interjected, his face set "…Greene is here because he has information we need and want."

"And you'd better listen…" Greene said, glee echoing in his tone.

"Not Helping, Greene" Winslow's eyes narrowed.

"This upstart…"

"This Upstart has been a reliable source of information for many years."

"I've been reliable…!?" Greene was positively beaming at this comment "…Thanks."

Winslow ignored that. But it had been true. All the information, which, not sourced from the War Office had filtered back through the tenuous links that Greene had running. The Smugglers, both inhuman and non-human were reliable when paid.

"So you believe there is someone behind this…" Pietrov murmured "…someone pulling the strings of this whole affair?"

"We know that the Nazis are utilizing tricks which are far beyond most average vampires capabilities. We've got magic cards popping up in Army Garrisons, bullets which can be controlled in mid flight. We've got illusionists up to Ying Yang employed by the Nazi SS to deal with interrogations. Now I know we've normally found that the Nazis rely more on vampires when it comes to the Occult but this whole situation reeks of Fey."

"But say the Fey have a hand in this…" Pietrov folded his arms "...then how can we explain the reliance on vampires. The Vampires are the rejects, the renegades. They bear no link to the Fey but instead the realms who will tear them to Hell for their sins once they truly die. That is the reason vampires can be classed as eternally cursed. Only those of true power bear some resemblance to the fey"

"But we are finding some of these so called dead soldiers to own some rather interesting pieces of occult weaponry. And I want to know where its coming from." Winslow scratched at his nose. "…the Templar are supposed to deal with most Occult activities throughout the world and still I have these illegal artifacts popping up all over the grid, always in the wrong hands."

"Could it be…" Drumknott, ever the smart one chewed his lip "…that the vampires are just an instrument to some greater goal. And they serve their purpose to some ends orchestrated by some other."

"But not yet…" Greene took a long drag before discarding the dog end "…I get the feeling that this is a thing of patience. But I also get the feeling its something to do with Blood."

"Like 'The Box' in Norway…" Winslow breathed "…could it be."

"And that 'Weapon'?"

"Just a fantasy that the Nazis can reverse this little hole they've dug themselves into. Merely a whim which serves to be nothing but pretty lights."

"I wish you could've of told me this earlier..."Winslow felt his eyes widen as Greene spoke "…I have men there risking their lives to remove any chance of that weapon firing."

"But then, perhaps it serves some purpose…" DrumKnott rasped as he discarded some phlegm "…such breaks to create some fantastical weapon of mass destruction strays away from any past history we've had with Fey encounters. If they're truly pulling the strings here, there must be something else."

* * *

The halls of the abandoned Nazi facility rang with running feet as the last shreds of Nazi equipment was turned over, their contents broken open on the cold ground. Nina brushed open a pair of broken doors, their wooden frames splintered and ruptured. From the top floor, the many destroyed buildings of Warsaw were like a graveyard, their rotting and war-torn frames still looking out over the destroyed and blackened ground.

There were claw marks on the floor; there was a table half destroyed. Plates lay scattered, still covered with the stains of some past meal, chairs lying in splintered, woody piles. She knelt down, running a hand over the claw marks, her brow furrowed as behind her, another Nightwatch soldier ducked through the broken door, his rifle questing across the room for a target.

"The facility is completely empty, woman"

Wood creaked, a chair back pushing further backward into shadow as a pair of bloodied, once well polished shoes and pinstripe trousers rested on the still intact half of the table. In shadow, the insolent tone of who that talked, a child maybe.

"This is no place for such an infant."

"Why? All children must come to know the true face of the world at some point" Eyes flashed in shadow as a face turned to them, a look of childish boredom written across its features. Walter, the child, the killer had a cigarette hanging from his lips, wreathing the space around him with smoke. "Though the thing is, you knew I was here from the moment you walked in. You could smell me…" a form shifted, the pinstriped trousers creasing slightly, the boy leaning forward, interested. "…I know what you Watchmen do in your deep dark strongholds. What were you exposed to?"

"I am perfectly mortal, Boy…" Nina glared at the youth "…you have succumbed to foul rumors."

"Oh I doubt that"

Walter smiled in the darkness set around his being. He couldn't quite understand Alucard's motives for letting the Russians past, but their leader smelt, feral. In the battle stained long coat and the thick grey scarf, she looked more like some sniper then a rank and file soldier. There were no distinguishing marks hinting at a rank or name. She did, however smell slightly of cough medicine.

There was a clatter of running feet before another, armored shape ducked down through the door way.

Командующий! Вы должны прийти навестить это! Воздушное судно, состыкованное здесь в течение некоторого времени перед отъездом несколько часов назад. Взглядом вещей, они были не в состоянии заправиться горючим должным образом прежде, чем они были нарушены Вами, знают кто! _(Commander! You'd better come and see this! An air ship docked here for some time before leaving several hours ago. By the look of things, they failed to refuel properly before they were disturbed by you know who!)_

"Forward it to High Command. Tell the British, that their quarry is heading anywhere within a hundred mile radius. Light Zeppelins cannot travel far on half tanks…" Nina turned her back on the juvenile killer in the chair "…Dimitri, take the others into the cellars and burn any vampire filth you can find down there…" she pulled her face from her scarf and glared deeply into the shadows as several Russian soldiers flitted across the window ledges with inhuman speed "…Valdmir, take two others and sweep and clear any possible pockets of resistance. Moskavin…" she turned to the heavily armored soldier at her elbow, rosary beads criss crossing the ornate but damaged armor plate he had strung over his chest "…you clear the labs of any readable material. Burn all Nazi related propaganda but save any pieces we would find valuable. Domorev…" a soldier saluted, the antenna rising from the metal clad backpack he had strung from his shoulders whipping back and forth as he snapped his heels together "…radio Moscow and tell them we've got what they were looking for."

"И Вы, Капитан?" (_And you, Captain?)_

She smiled, hard and cold as a Siberian winter.

* * *

Trivia - The Immortal Aegis

For some time, there have been several individuals who have walked the earth who can never die. They are not linked to the Fey Kingdoms or any other magical kingdoms but are, in fact related directly to the dead realms. The Dead Realms are truly not a Kingdom but are in-fact a metaphor or at least a state of 'being'. The world is drab and shaded and is taken up mostly by a vast, fast flowing river. And at the end of the river, Death in truth waits for souls who are suspended in the current. Those who are deemed unjudged remain hanging in the water, fighting the current in a constant state of purgatory while they wait for Death to deem them worthy to 'pass on'. Those deemed unworthy are cast into the Inferno, a realm of 9 rings, each ring a state of sin and punishment.

Aegis or Immortal are those who are rejected by death, unwanted by hell but have some tenuous link to the river of death. Some were referred to as the 'Bathed' meaning those who have fallen into the water and escaped death becoming ageless. Then there are those who have escaped death but live an eternal life of fear of dark shadows which plagues their vision and stalks their souls, some are just physically improbable, permanent blips, and then there are those who have escaped Hel itself.

Immortals are generally easy to spot. Contact with the river or living for such lengths of time and leads most Aegis to have blazing green eyes. Most believe the eye colour is to do with the connection with the Fey, however this belief was cast aside after several links to the Dead realms were revealed. It is, and this has been tested, absolutely impossible to kill an immortal. They have no weakness, no possible means of killing them. They cannot die but in that sense, they cannot live truly. Their weakness is their life and their cynicism is their undoing. But they are completely unkillable...


	17. The Delve Schism

Right, Next Chapter Up. I doubt many will read this, but well done to the few who have managed to wade through the previous Chapters. I'm trying to meld a Universe to the Hellsing story and adding even more depth to the original Manga. All reviews are welcome, so please 'read and review'.

There is a small Glossary at the end of this chapter.

Enjoy.

* * *

_Vampires are just civilized daemons who are no longer 'monsters'. Vampires, just appear too human, feral humans but humans none the less; they still have a tenuous link back to their humanity. True Monsters can never be described as Humanoid._

* * *

Wrathwell rose from the wreckage as fires burned across the decking. The Golem lay scattered its once delicate inner workings and badly retrofitted Nazi propaganda now lying smashed across the metal work. And the weapon was a aflame, vast lines of green fire were weaving across its surface, picking out leaves and trees, winding vines and violently lit thickets of thorns. Wrathwell turned, silhouetted by the pillar of green fire and swore.

"I feel them…" he said "…in my mind and the verges of my memory. Foul things are abroad this night, though their goals will not be reached as of yet. But their call is a harrowing warning of things to come..." he paused "...i will be ready as will the others..." he paused again, if in deep conversation with some unseen figure "...I am doubtless of our success, however the pessimism remains."

The world exploded around him as pipes burst, walls ruptured and poured freezing air into the wide space. The flames curled around him as if held away by an invisible shield, the air crystallising his breath as he stared into the inferno. Black Rags caught the wind, shapes moving amongst the flames, gesturing to him with burning hands. Wrathwell's fingers left marks in the haft of the scythe as he glared back, the golem's body parts becoming liquid around his feet as the last lingering shreds of life were sucked into the flame. And there, beyond the flames, the green light of the pillar, the Nazis so called weapon, continued to push through the flames as the deck plates warped and buckled.

* * *

"Curse you mortal!!" Harker snarled as the scythe cut through her arm and sent her tumbling away howling. Immediately, like threads pulling a piece of cloth together, her arm pulled itself back together as Zorin, the illusionist cast aside her mirage, her visual trick. The wounded woman who had occupied the work station disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, leaving only the dark, tall blonde haired figure of Zorin Blitz who loomed over the fallen Templar, the scythe dripping dark crimson fluid.

There must have been iron held in the metal, the cut along Harker's shoulder was struggling to regenerate even as she watched. Iron, the only true thing Fey had any weakness too. Horseshoes were made of it, and the more astute members of the population hung them over their doors to ward away Fey creatures. For such a large weapon, the blade would have to be heavy to increase momentum, its wielder leering down on the elf, a cruel smile playing across her features as the illusionist caused the air around her to ripple.

Harker sprang to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder, the dribbles of blood which ran down her armour and the roaring flames which rose up around her.

"Its all lies, a falsehood…" Harker spat as the other glared onward "…you have no true focus, no true magic, just cheap tricks to fool those around you. But let me assure you, unlike the human lackeys you've had to deal with before, I am nothing you've ever seen!"

"I doubt zhat…" Zorin called over the chaos. "…ve vill nezer give up. Ve vill continue till zis situation haz been corrected, again and again."

"You are just pawns in another man's game, Loki…" Harker drew the Erlkonig from its scabbard and held in loosely in one hand, the other moving down toward her waist. "…what do you believe will happen? Do you believe that the world will always have you, do you believe that the Third Reich will last forever. People will think otherwise, people will always rise against you. There will always be that little thorn in your side and if you fire the weapon, you will never win however many you kill."

Zorin was gone in a blink of an eye, Harker straining against the sheer force of the scythe as it smashed into her small silletto blade. Zorin's thin lips curled backward to expose the overly sharp teeth of a vampire as the golden eyes reflected Harker's own.

"What are you? Some artificial freak, some little creation of a scientist who plays with the dead." Harker snarled as her arms shook under the sheer brute force exerted against her.

"You talk to much" Zorin spoke through gritted teeth as the Kommandent pushed more of her weight into the Elf's blade. Harker broke her nose with her face plate, sending the vampire staggering backward. Immediately Harker was on her, her legs wrapping around the vampire's chest and slamming her down into the waiting blade. She fell away howling as the side of the ship caved in and sent the gantry spinning sideways. Harker grabbed the guide rail and dragged herself upright as fire licked at the soles of her boots. Zorin was a black shadow under the flames, the scythe embedding a few inches away from Harker's unbalanced form.

She dragged the blade from where it stuck at right angles from her chest, the soiled uniform tearing under the overly sharpened edges of the blade. Black, rotting blood dripped from the edges of the grimy uniform and was cast away into the wind.

"Darwin Enigma, control restriction…" The iron and flames were the only things she could feel around here, not the rushing power. The inferno refused her words as the iron residue which ran in her veins from the previous attacks bled her dry, the wounds refusing to heal. Blood spattered on the decking as Harker inched forward, in pain and desperate…

"Vhat are you…" Zorin's voice echoed across the noise "…zome kind of Vampire? Vhy do you try and copy our glorious project for your own benefit. Vhy must you be so unoriginal?"

The scythe came whipping up, Harker leaping onto the haft as Zorin dragged it up from the floor, forcing the weapon down as Harker flipped over. Over balanced, Zorin fell into Harker, the elf tearing a bloody streak from her torso as she leapt over the soldier and skidded to a halt. The scythe was brought back, the blade tearing through the guide rails on the right and hooking round Harker's unguarded back with unimaginable speed. Harker shrieked as she was nearly cut in two by the blade, the iron burning her innards as it scattered her across the deck. Immediately, silver and black shadows sprung into action, dragging her back together with agonising slowness as the elf pressed her weight up against one banister.

"You are veak..." Zorin ran a finger along the bloody blade, watching the elf with those merciless golden eyes, raising an eyebrow as her finger met a missing section of the blade. A shard was missing "…and yet you continue to fight."

"Its because its all I have, Nazis have always victimised what is weak though in the end, weakness only reserved for those who believe that they have none. Like you, Loki, you believe that you are strong and that you will trample on the weak, but you are infact the one that is flawed.

The scythe shattered the tattered sinews of the Elf's back in one stroke, Harker shrieking as the monster tore into her. The kiss of the iron gantry burned her cheek, her fingers clasping for her knives, their pommels digging into her back.

"I vonder if you die like a vampire, frauline…" the blade rose high above the flames, her incoming death cackling into the inferno which surrounded the platform on either side. Harker only saw hell and the black column above her was the reaper, at last coming for her soul. She had tried, but the weapon, the iron which surrounded her.

"Ze head iz alvays ze vay to kill vone like yourself"

A bullet tore a hole in Zorin's shoulder, the woman falling forward as blood splattered across the gantry. Strauss held a steaming gun in shaking, grimy hands. His uniform was torn, his boots scuffed and his badges gone. His short brown hair was sweat stained and dirt encrusted his eyes wide and staring.

It'd taken him a while to pluck up the courage to break from cover and come to the Elf's aid. But she was there, lying at the monster's feet, broken and bleeding, her red hair crawling away as if trying to escape from the horrific shard of iron which stuck from her back. An evil smile stole over Zorin's face as the Illusionist stooped low, a bullet bouncing of the metal work behind as Strauss fired again.

Harker gargled loudly as she was grabbed by the throat, Zorin pulling the elf up off the ground, her boots kicking feebly. Sillouetted by the fire Zorin turned and tossed the elf, Harker smashing into the iron work and skidding to a halt at his feet.

"You vant to be ze hero!? Zen so be it, Zis Freak ist yours!!"

"Fraueline…!" Struass gathered the elf up in his arms, dropping his pistol in the process. Harker was barely moving, the iron moving through her system like a poison. Zorin turned and strode back into the fire, shedding the wrecked jacket in the process, her scythe resting over her shoulder. The weapon was calling to her and though half closed eyes, she enjoyed the green fire as it spilled around her.

A dark shape moving through the flames made Zorin look up, her blonde hair catching the wind as something stepped from the flames, the remains of a Nazi uniform tearing away into the howling gusts which rose from the ruptured floor far below. Berlin stared back, ablaze and Zorin felt the smallest tug toward those dying below. But now was not time for such weakness, that figure was coming back, a tall warped shape stepping from the flames.

"You." She said through thin lips.

"Me…" Shia'ra said, crimson ribbons forming round her like some macabre cloak. Ghoulish shadows gathered around her feet as the Freak, the so called true vampire stared into the crimson eyes and saw a thousand souls glaring back. "…unlike the elf, I am not as easy to cast aside."

Zorin fled, leaving the woman, the monster behind. Shia'ra didn't follow, the black ni'qab fluttering.

"_Chase…_" the voice ordered, digging its thorns into her mind.

"No…" she said, plainly, casting Chearbael aside "…I have consumed enough to satiate your needs for one night."

Zorin didn't look back as she ran on. The door was burning hot but she still gripped in hard fingers, ignoring the pain as she levered the door open. Something moved in the smoke filled, gore covered passage way beyond the flames. Zorin could see something, a figure moving midst the carnage. A white haired, tall thing…

"Vhat in hell are you?"

"Me…" Renfield said, baring his teeth delightedly as two heavily muscled arms reached up to drag the howling vampire from the door "…my name is Renfield."

* * *

"We have to get out now!!" Lyra screamed over the fire noise over took her senses, the smoke and the heat turning the room into a shimmering. The flames were beautiful, she could feel the tug of her soul, trying to get her leap, to dive into the flames and allow their pure teeth to lick around her. But now was not the time. Men, who deserved her help need to be rescued, some how.

"More time!!" Brent dug another incendiary charge from his backpack and slung it up against a generator. Godfrey primed it and stepped back gingerly as the flames continued to roar at his back. Oil pipes ran clearly across the ceiling, most had already sprung a leak, and these Pike watched. But none had gotten close to the explosive charges set by Brent and his men and instead blazed merrily a few metres away.

"Are we all set Corporal?"

"Looks as though, Sarge." Wilson attached his rifle to the straps on his back. "We've mined the officers' generator. We blow this, the rest of the oil pipes in this area should ignite and the shutters blocking the weapon exit chute shouldn't open. So far, it would seem that it requires an exit route to deploy properly. So, if it fires it has no where to go..."

"But up?" Lyra felt the wind whooshing below her skirts and thanked the gods for metal greaves.

"Exactly, straight up into the bag."

"That'll be a big palaver."

Beneath the gas mask Brent grinned evilly. "…you bet, Corporal."

* * *

The light Zepplin docked with ease as across the dry asphalt, several black clad soldiers sprang into position, their great coats caught in the down draft from the 5 massive engines. In the distance, Berlin burned and set the sky alight. It was, truly, like walking on the boundaries of hell itself. The hangers which surrounded the air ship dock were picked out in orange and crimson light as high above, like some burning log caught on a fire, the zeppelin burned. The light zeppelin tugged at its ropes eager to escape, even if there would be no more flying for it tonight. The flight from Warsaw had drained its tanks and by the time the zeppelin dropped down onto the single strip of tarmac, its engines were sputtering in the cold.

"Major!" The flight officer waved a gloved hand as descending on a metal covered ramp, the portly shape of the Major, rolled quite happily along, his ever stoic body guard towering beside him. He raised an eyebrow beneath his bottle bottom glasses as the pale faced, frightened soldier ran up to the base of the stairs, stooping low as if to bow. The other didn't respond, his bodyguard instead nodding silently. White hair shifted beneath the cap as caught in the shadow of the cap brim, crimson eyes glittered.

"Vhat ist ze problem, Lieutenant?" He said, after a short pause, his eyes alighting on the zeppelin high above. It was nearly torn in two, the fires onboard had spread throughout the gondola and were causing the entire object to sink rapidly.

"Nothink, my Major. Deux ex Machina ist veady vor your arrival. Ist just…ist…just"

"Vhat ist it?"

"Ve cannot take off vith all the enemy planes in the air."

"Zhey are of little concern…" the Major turned, his coat flapping wildly as ever, his bodyguard followed mutely. At his back the zeppelin exploded in a blast of green fire, the sky becoming almost like day as huge fragments of gas bag blew out into the night. Light seemed to split the sky in half as concentrated eldritch energy blazed out of the bag, the last of the gas holding it aloft igniting in one massive whoomph, which sent the windows of the control tower rattling "…zhat vould be a good zignal az any. It vill take time vor me to become aquainnted with the ship…" he said lazily "…zhey vill probably be crashing down onto the air field the way the ze clouds are movink. Ze vind ist in our favour, my Captain. Deal vith any survivors you find amongst the wreckage."

* * *

Renfield was a cackling, a horrible shadow as he pressed the weakly struggling Nazi Kommandent against his chest, his breath hot in her face as he laughed through the fire.

"So, you think you can really win? You think you can truly defeat us. You may be horribly mistaken; however, I will not be your death. I will more….act as a anchor to you being and let gravity do the work…" he grinned toothily as the deck started to list, the corridor before his descending down, the bodies sliding away in bloody piles "…it is quite ironic really. Those who dare to give their lives to some ill-gotten goal in high places are rather susceptible to dropping at tremendous rates to the ground below. Where they should be and where they will be presently."

"NEIN!! NEIN!!" she was clawing at his, his lycan powered arms tightening like a vice as she struggled to pull free. He allowed gravity to pull against him, his toes digging into the metal as the door rose behind, the deck tilting extremely.

"Why, aren't you some immortal vampire. Chosen by the Lezte Battalion to be the savior of the Nazi way of life. Well, I believe the ground is very eager to meet you and bestow on you congratulations for your good work…" he smiled widely "…at speed."

She screamed long and loud as with a grating shudder the corridor pitched up, sending Renfield and the struggling woman with him down into the smoke.

* * *

"A flare…!!" Wrathwell folded his arms across his chest as he leapt from the gantry and into the empty space below, the stolen parachute heavy against his back "…so he isn't as mad as we first thought."

He twirled in the air, his coat billowing as the freezing cold air sent frost scything over his eyebrows as he tumbled into the burning streets below.

"A distraction….it would appear the Major wasn't just prince stabbity stab then…" he mused, even as the wind whistled past his face "…but instead nearing genius. He must have used a lot of resources to fund this kind of escape." The parachute jerked him to a halt, the straps digging into his arms as his fall slowed. Eldritch fire still crackled through the sky over his head, the green lighting up the wrecked metal and torn fabric of the zeppelin as it passed, burning like a comet as it plunged to the ground below. Several other shapes were out amongst the dark sky. Gasmasks caught the light as several 50th Columnists shouted and waved at the falling Templar. Holmwood too, his arms full of manuscripts floated by quite happily, his cap askew and his hands covered in blood never the less. But something was wrong… Brent was yelling over the winds, his arms waving wildly as he gestured at the falling ship. Something…or someone was still on board…

* * *

Lyra shrieked as the metal girder nearly took her head off, the slant on the floor sending her skittering down the deck plates. She could see nothing; smell nothing but the horrible cloying smoke. She coughed, her mouth dry as the flames licked about her boots, the walls quickly becoming the floor as the airship's burning wreckage tipped to vertical. A door opened, the frame warping as the metal boiled and burned in the intense heat. She tumbled inside, her head hitting a pipe as she skidded to a halt before a vast wall of flame. Though fogged eyes she saw nothing but fire and in her minds eye, her burning room was all too real, her Grandmother's things caught in the flames as the house burned and the villagers outside jeered and shouted.

But they weren't jeering…no…they were calling for help. Calling for whoever was caught inside that blaze. And there was something else, something in the fire. And it was watching her. She raised a hand, grasping at the burning feathers which hung just out of reach. Black, oil like eyes watched her. Pupiless orbs which gazed at her through the flames. And wings rose about her form, hugging her, gathering her up and in one long drawn out tone, singing to her as the house burned around. The song, was beautiful and it sent the chords of her soul quivering. And then he came, stepping through the flames, his coat flapping in the blaze. And he'd taken her from the being which held her and carried her away. To a cold orphanage where the others rejected her. But the thing in the flames was still there, still waiting for her…

* * *

Harker awoke cold. Snow fell through iron like branches, the world cast into black and white by the white snow and black wood. Strauss laid metres away, covered with a thin layer of frost, his grey uniform dripping with blood. Her blood…she rested a slim hand on the wound on her shoulder. The iron shard lay nearby, its blood covered surface staining the snow a deep crimson. So not quite a black and white world then…

"So the Delve has once again saved you from certain death, sister." A cold voice, not dissimilar from Harker's own rang out, a lone shape moving through the trees at Harker's back. Harker turned, her red hair fanning out around her, becoming barbed and sharp as her stance widened, reaching for the sword on her back.

"Come out, Lireal." She murmured, her golden eyes flickering.

"Oh, but I already have, dear Sister." Lireal, the Elf stepped one delicate foot into the clearing, her skirts briefly touching the earth before they drifted up slightly, like a ghost's gown. She wore silver, her torso clad in a silver corset which ended above her breasts, a downy white fur covering her shoulders where glittering silvery filigree were shot through each fibre. Her hair, the same red as Harker's own was highlighted with gold shades, broken only by a set of antlers which surrounded her head in an organic crown. There, a single golden band rested on her neatly tied fringe, a crown of sorts.

Harker didn't change her stance and lent lower, her feet kicking up snow. The similarity was easy to see, however Harker appeared more barbed, sharp and grimy unlike the clean lines of her sister. Black…and white, that simple analogy, Harker narrowed her eyes. The Hircine were here too, just out of sight and waiting for her Sister's command. The elven features of her sister were neatly similar, there was no deny that, behind the iron mask which was branded to her face, Harker's own dark skin was drawn into a similar look of her sister, the thin nose, delicate chin, the plump though drawn lips and the of course…the golden eyes. Most Elves tended to have green irises, cat like as ever, their pupils becoming like slits when angered. But the royalty, the true Fey themselves, the Fraternity; had golden eyes.

Harker hissed, like a snake, her sister smiling coldly from beneath that crown.

"You surrender to Violence so easily, Sister."

"Why, I though violence was something you were used to, Lireal…"

"My will is not violent…" she replied, her feet not disturbing the snow "...i merely take my place amongst the strong and trample on the weak. It is my right to be un-virtuous toward them; however, it is not violence. At least not as you know it as."

"Slavery, War, Cruelty…it would appear that these are no longer human traits but your own as well. Did you find what you were seeking in industry or did the industry blacken your hearts like so many others."

"And you, Artemis…" Lireal said, her smile dropping from her features like melting ice "…would you count yourself exempt from all this. You revel in the slaughter and the cruelty you inflict on others. Would you think you are different? You are a monster, a twisted elf, a 'Tainted' being. I would kill you now, if I wanted to, but you have your own path walk."

"You know what's going to happen, don't you." Harker positioned herself between her sister and the comatose human "Ever since father left you the throne after I was captured by the Templar, you've been scheming like some poisonous flower or weed." She spat the last words, her hatred unbridled and roaming free.

"I don't know what you mean Artemis…" she said innocently, inspecting her nails, very aware of Harker's own feelings.

"You know what Hemmler is, don't you…..my Sister." Ever so similar to Alucard's address, the words hissed from Harker's mouth, just with a little less effortless seduction which usually graced the Vampire's words.

"Perhaps. Playing with a mad man's mind is so easy. Just offer a warmonger the chance of endless war and he will, of course bite. And now he's after the vampire…so little effort is required to alter the paths of mens minds. He believes that he will bring war once again and in that instance, kill his one true enemy."

"Vlad would not allow himself to be bested."

"But don't you see, its not the 'renegade' I require. You lock Hellsing's little pet away in the future. I know, I've seen it. The Templar are called to deal with the monster because he is too powerful for a time till some brat releases him at a given, already predicted time. Timing…my sister….that is what we require. There are more powerful things then blood, especially what is held within innocent blood and that that has been held within a vampire for centuries. His taint has engrained itself into every facet of his and his victims' souls…" she hissed, much like Harker. Harker came acutely aware of several antlered 'things' moving through the wood at her sister's back, their paths hard to follow. "…it is the taint I need."

"Why, why exactly would you require the taint of a vampire?"

"The Cold Ones…my Sister."

"What…?" Harker narrowed her eyes.

"Now…" Lireal stood in a cloud of snow, the woods at her back becoming busy with movement. "…as I orchestrated this little meeting, it was….a pleasure…" Too long, Harker stooped to pick the deadweight of Strauss from the floor, the silence was far too long. Now was time to go…. "…this world is seen as a rescue to Elves when they nearly die. I will allow you that little 'favour'. But for now, my Sister. You are no longer my…guest. You should leave….Now."

Nothing remained of Harker but snowflakes. Lireal smiled, clasping her fingers and turned. The wood stilled and she was gone, lost in the snow, her skirts leaving a lingering exotic fragrance on the breeze.

* * *

Glossary - Excerpt from the Brothers Grimm Almanac on the Fey Realms and their Beasts

* * *

_The Delve_

The Delve is an area of 'Dead' Space which occurs when an elf is close to death but is unable to change form to escape due to some lasting wound or magic. The removal of Iron from Knight Templar Harker's shoulder allowed her and her Companion, the Soldier Strauss to be transported from the Human realm into the Fey 'Sphere'. This costs a lot of Energy and this spike can be sensed for miles by many daemons and Wrights who are drawn to this spot by the sudden death energy released. It is known for dying elves to 'take a wrong turn' and end up in another dimension. These are referred to as 'The Lost' and are usually warped husks when found by the Elvish Spirit Rangers. It is also known for any human companions who are brought to the realm through 'The Delve' to be ever changed and inexplicably linked to the blood of the Elf in Question. Be this a royal elf, then these 'Changes' will be of great effect.

For more Information Consult the Knightly Codex and the Brothers Grimm Almanac (Unedited)

_Loki_

Named after the Trickster God of Norse Legends, Loki refer to Illusionists who are known to trick the mind and confuse the soul. Even Elves are susceptible illusions as demonstrated by the Nazi Kommandent, Zorin Blitz

_Sphere_

The name of each alternate universe or 'Kingdom'. It is not known if the universe is spherical, however for now most aren't into looking, the actual size becoming somewhat of a prevalent issue. However, for our sakes, expect the universe to be spherical. However, it has been known for some third eye usurpers to actually think the Universe is in fact, in the shape of an L.

_Cauldron_

A nickname given to areas of particularly active Fey Hotspots. The Nickname is taken from the expression 'Cauldron's Bubble', the phrase itself originating from Shakespearian Times when Macbeth spoke to the three wyrd sisters on that blasted heath. Said to be spawning pits for Daemons, witches Cauldrons seemed a good nickname for areas where Fey monsters pass through. These areas are known portals to Fey realms, though very few remain. They are usually Ancient Trees with its roots embedded deeply in some old Ley line or Eldritch Sink. They can also be buildings, the 29th column in an old ruin, the 13th window of an old house. The largest Cauldron in existence is the Mariana Trench in the Pacific Ocean but that has been inactive for many a century. In England, the only still active Cauldron is Trollers Ghyll, an old Gorge deep in the Yorkshire Dales. The Winslow line has had a Fortress built on this stop for many a year and act as Wardens to the surrounding countryside.

_The Taint_

A thirst for blood and carnage believed to be held within the blood which exists within the hearts of most lost the human world, though recent reports show existence of the 'Taint' in other worlds. These who are affected by the 'Taint' revel in slaughter and will be lost to fits of such intense violence they are more akin to animals then actual humans. The actual source of the Taint is unknown though several rumours point toward a race of Beings known as the 'Cold Ones' though this link has never been proven. This Taint is something to be tapped into; a vein of darkness which spreads throughout the world. There is believed to be a 'source'. However, most Templar scribes expect that the 'Taint' is merely an excuse for past horrors. However Knight Palaldin Andrew Wrathwell, Knight Captain 'Reverend' Julian Mcduff, Knight Initiate Michelle Lauren, Knight Paladin Alfred Renfield and Knight Magistar Joseph Holmwood believe that this is only half true.

The Wyre are free of the Taint and will not give in to bloodlust easily, however the younger feral members of the Clans can be susceptible to the Taint as can those who have reached the rights of ancient and are losing their minds to madness.

The Immortals cannot be effected by the Taint, they are so focused on their path they only fight those they deem worthy of their attention, IE Master Beasts, Arch-Daemons, Kraken and blood crazed Wyre to name a few.

Vampires, unlike the many other races who are susceptible to the Taint are direct conduits to the 'Taint' rather then seeing it as a affliction and are one with it, hence their desire for blood. This taint is usually represented by a black shadow with red eyes which may be evident of its source birthright at high release settings and can be transferred through the blood which would also give rise to the belief that the 'Taint' is some incurable disease, passed by the blood.

There are many views of what the 'Taint' actually is and what spawned such darkness. Some believe it's linked to the dead realms, others believe that is a source of energy which is capable of been tapped into (E.g Norway). Some believe it's a direct link to hell and was where Satan walked the Earth while retreating from God's Angels.

_(Though seeing as in the Templar Universe, the belief in God is viewed with a little suspicion this is usually ignored. Andrew has always stated that God has turned his back on the world a long time ago and has moved onto a much __more ambitious project. However Hel is defiantly still up and running, though Satan is deemed a myth and is merely where bad things are just given a name. However the Almanac has listed several Daemons though their source is unclear. Whenever this subject is broached with Andrew, he states that 'There's Death and that's all you need to know. Just don't expect a Hollywood ending'.)_

Some also believe that the 'Taint' is something more, something more ancient which is a lingering reminder of past times. And then those who have a little more grounded way of thinking believe it's merely a metaphor, an excuse for past crimes…

(Also referred to as the 'Rot', though this is prescribed to those who control such creatures or tainted men to do their bidding. Sometimes a Derogatory remark; "May the Rot Take you" "Your soul rots" "Rot eat your hide")


	18. Peeled Apples

Right, Next chapter up. With a current surge in people reading this piece, i am pushed to right more which is great! So thanks to all those who have been reading so far. Its been a real experience and I'm glad i've pulled something like this together. Sorry if the Airship Sequences have been a little long...believe me, even i was getting bored.

This chapter is called Peeled Apples after the Manic Street Preachers song of the same name. It signified Renfield quite well and this piece features him quite heavily. This is the last of the 'Backstory' pieces and now we're onto the meat of the story. Everything is relevant, everything has a place in the final sections of the story. The rest of the Story (Some Spoilers) takes place a year after the Vampire Blitz of London and includes Integra and Sera's Victoria quite heavily, infact the piece relies increasingly on the Hellsing Organisation. Also introducing several New Templar to the mix as well to show the passage of time, not all the Templar have extended life-spans.

Anyway, you know the Drill. And please, please, please read and review. I know there isn't that much of a pairing here but it still relies heavily on the things that make Hellsing great.

Enjoy.

* * *

A black shape, the ripple of black robes. That was all Lyra could see through the flames, her memories scattered to the rolling frames as something, or someone moved through the fire. She stuck out a hand questing for the single shadow, that scrap of darkness which reared up from the black, dispelling the vast fiery wings of her guardian and forced the return of the fire.

"Please…I…"

Shia'ra seized the younger woman from the floor, her black robes fluttering as she planted an armoured, crimson clad hand round the many belts which held the medicinal pack and warded books in place. This was going to take some ingenuity, the Cabalist took a quick look around her, the flames licking round her daemon skin boots as the daemon struggled to control its form, scared of the flames. For all their fire and brimstone ideologies, daemons had only one weakness…fire. And this really wasn't the place to be. If it wasn't for the massive rents torn into the side of the ship, the oxygen would have been torn out some time ago. However, the cold night wind seemed to be fuelling the fires.

"Damn it, Wrathwell…" she tore a hole in a wall with a wave of her hand "…you didn't tell me there'd be fire…!!!" She could imagine him laughing at that statement, his eyes twinkling as he grinned with those well cleaned tombstone teeth. "…swarmy git." She cast the image away with a twitch of her neck, her veil blowing up against her face as the wind blew a gale through the open hole. The outline of a mouth and the delicate fold of her nose showed through the thin black cloth. She narrowed her eyes.

"…_I hate to speed you on your way…" _the daemon whispered_ "…but I would try to show a little more haste. I would hate to be killed…"_

"For an ancient being you really know the right time to be telling me these things." The cabalist grumbled as she dragged Lyra clear, the woman groaning, her face stained and soot covered as vampire blood dried and split across her face. The cold night air screamed up to meet her as she staggered clear, falling face first into the empty night air. Wind whistled by and without a parachute, they plummeted downward, the air ship falling about them as the fires sent a burning tail out behind the falling ship. Shia'ra barrel rolled aside, avoiding a loose piece of flaming cloth, remnants of the bag. She pushed on in a swirl of black, her hand still wrapped tightly round the collar of the greatcoat Lyra wore. She darted aside again in a cloud of red vapour, a scorched girder whipping by at a tremendous speed. They were getting far too close to the tail of the ship as it broke up, she darted aside again, the blood daemon shifting her entire being in a gut wrenching spray of red fluid. She landed heavily and absurdly on a large piece of spinning metal which had peeled away from the ship and blasted forward, the force of her jump nearly tearing the metal in two. It fell behind like kernel's ejecting from around an earthbound seed

Berlin was but a glow, lighting the horizon in hellish colours. Shia'ra swore in some dark language, whirling round to avoid another piece of rag, its burning embers catching her face as she pushed onward. That single brief distraction sent her control spiralling, cheaurbael casting out in what could be easily mistaken for panic. In an instant, the red tendrils exploded from the cabalist's back sending one massive pulsing canopy above her head. She jerked backward, Lyra's collar coming loose in one fluid moment. Shia'ra screamed in frustration, her veil flickering wildly as beneath fangs sprang from gums in a moment of pure rage. Lyra tumbled away, her arms wind milling desperately as in that moment, consciousness returned. Her exclamation of fear was torn away by the wind as the ground came rushing up to meet her, the tarmac a vast black maw to seize her from the sky and dash her on the ground.

Thickly muscled arms seized her from her uncontrolled descent, their fibrous surfaces digging hard into Lyra's chest as the Cabalist seized her one more time, and as the cold night air burned her face, she looked up into the crimson eyes of the cabalist and felt the tiniest glimmer of trust.

* * *

The impact of the zeppelin sent a blast of boiling air rippling across the air field as the screech of tortured metal and crump of explosives reverberated across the blood covered battlefields which surrounded Berlin. Still intact windows blew inward, glass peppering rooms and their occupants. The noise was so vast that across the ruined city, men looked up in surprise as the very streets reverberated. Bells not claimed by the army rung resoundingly, their towers shaking with the pure force of the impact. Closer to the crash site, swastikas not torn down by the invading forces were ripped from their posts. The airfield buildings disintegrated in a gigantic fireball, the air sparkling with green fragments as the once restricted eldritch energy was unleashed into the air. Vast, rippling fields of green lightning played over the wreck, the fire spread rapidly through the fields of oil and licking round the discarded planes and empty hangers. The inferno's light sent the sky ablaze, ash raining down from on high as the dark sky was filled with embers, each a tiny point of light which blocked out the stars. The moon still glared down from its lofty perch, the moonlight cast aside by the blaze.

The gondola shattered, the girders holding it in place buckling as it ground onward, its underside splintering under the weight as the downward force dragged it across the asphalt and concrete of the air field. Its nose plummeted, the iron cage holding it in place snapping like twigs, the ice which had originally coated them melting rapidly, the last lingering fingers of frost were forced back, no cold left to sustain them. The zeppelin's tail dipped, the rear compartments coming loose in a crash, their interiors peeled open as delicate glass pods, each big enough to hold a human, shattered spreading glittering particles across the scorched black earth behind the craft. It left burning trails behind, both in the air and on the ground, large ruts been torn from blackened earth as with a grinding scream and a roar, it came to rest.

The wind sent the Captain's coat fluttering as he watch silently as the huge nose of the air ship ground to a halt metres from his head, his crimson eyes watching, his face expressionless from under the brim of his hat. The wind tugged it from his head, his grey hair aglow in the fireball. Behind that, debris lay scattered like seeds spread across a field.

Through the thick glass of the Deux ex Machina's bridge, the Major watched with curiosity, his glasses reflecting the hellish glow. In his med lab in the bowels of the airship, the Dok paused in his ministrations to an unconscious Rip Van Winkle and raised his head to the ceiling as a new, more sinister tone rang out across the airfield. The Major's fat jowls curled back as green lightning ran up the walls of the hanger and sent the zepplin's sides crackling. By his side, the naval officers looked on fear as through the flames; the single robed form of the Captain was a single black pillar of shadow.

"Shia'ra!!" Lyra's scorched hands grasped painfully at the burning metal around which the littered the floor around her as she staggered from the wreck. There was no reply, only the roar of the flames and steady drip of blood. Lyra winched, her hand going up to the bleeding hole torn from her arm. She could see bone through the red fluid, the tissue which made up her arm lacerated and torn, blood running freely. Nauseated, she fell to her knees, her breaths short and hard as all moisture left her mouth.

"Knight Sergeant…!!" She shrieked, hand clamped over the gaping wound as her arm hung limp and useless "…Captain Wrathwell!!!..."

A voice rang out across the blazing tarmac. The Captain's hat was caught in the wind and blew off into the smoke. He didn't go after it, he didn't even look, his head turning to the source of the voice, her cries plaintive. A woman, a wounded woman. She was scared and she was calling for help. He narrowed one eye, trying to pierce the smoke filled air. He could….smell her. Her fear…and coppery fragrance of blood too. He dropped low and sprinted, wolf like into the smoke.

He was on her before she could cry out, his hands swift and clamped solidly round her throat. Screaming, she tried to break free, smashing her ready hand into his face again and again as she was lifted, her feet twitching feebly. And she was talking, gasping words which broke through the flames to assault his sensitive ears. He snarled, his teeth distending, becoming sharp points as jaws cracked back, his face lengthening. At his back, the moon was a pitiless orb, like a single pupil of a cold god.

"Renfield…" Lyra spluttered as the wolfish monster that held her began to ripple with power "…what the hell are you doing!"

Recognition blazed in his eyes for a second before it was gone, replaced by an almost merciless fury. The usually stoic face was becoming some vile mask, the eyes becoming hard and slit like as he bared his teeth, a rumbling growl rising from his chest.

"Its me…!" she screamed again as the claw like fist punctured her throat, tearing through her skin. "…please." He beheld her terrified eyes as his pistol recoiled, shattering her ribs and sending blood and fluid splattering across the tarmac behind her. She was aware of the hole which nearly tore her in two and she was very aware of the cold fingers of death she could feel rising through her being. There was blood pouring, draining away from her as the immortal being held her, her feet dangling weakly. Her hands sagged, arms dropping limp as feeling disappeared replaced by a dull throb. She gasped, her face covered with the gore of her passing as her black tresses became stained with that vile substance. Her eyes stared, fear filled, puzzlement registering on her face for a split second before pure terror took over. He held her still, like a puppet who's strings had been cut, seeming to revel in her passing. He tossed her away, a ragdoll bouncing across the tarmac and coming to a halt at the base of a large pile warped metal. She lay there, broken and blood spattered, fingers twitching.

In her head, the haunting song and the thrum of a tune filled her ears and sent the pain scurrying away. And wrapped in the wings of her guardian, she felt a little comfort as the world left her behind.

"You Bastard…" A dark form rose from the flames as Renfield, the noble wolf rose from the fire. Scorched, his bare chest steamed as burns sustained from the fall quickly healed, scabs falling from him like leaves. "…you have lost all honour to maim a wounded woman. You are not a wolf; you don't even deserve to be named a Werewolf. You have besmirched my families named and robbed me…" he stepped forward, leaving bloody foot prints spattered over the tarmac "…of my life and my love…two hundred years I have waited for this moment…"

He paused, raising his hands and gesturing at the fire about him calling across the flames with a twisted grin. "Fate has brought us together, coincidence may be a fickle spinster but she has always looked warmly on every step I take. The Wyre must truly be smiling upon me today." He dropped his arms down to his sides, his white hair blowing about his long features and thickset jaw. The Captain, silent as ever watched through narrowed eyes as Renfield mounted a burning strut and, as if rising from hell itself, rose up above him, his boots smoking in the light.

"I have what most will give freely…" Alfred smiled for the first time in many a year, a horrible, wrath filled sneer "…but most are unwilling to take. Is it fear perhaps? Or is it stubbornness? However, fear or no, It still comes to us all."

The captain 'flowed'. A fist was raised, white fur building up behind the fist as his own face flowed like missed, jaws snarling as the wolf howled. Renfield was laughing as he too leapt from the burning metal, his left arm's muscles bunching as he sprinted forward. His fist connected with the other's face, the captain falling away snarling as blood splattered across the floor. Renfield felt his jaw give way under the assault, the Captain's fist smashing into the side his own face. Muscle reformed, the bone falling back into flesh as he pushed off the back foot, changing as he leapt forward. His front foot landed, a vast dinner plate sized paw in place of his foot as bounded forward, a vast white wolf smashing into the Hans's chest. He levered his fist into the other's jaw, white mist billowing behind it as fur sprung along his arm, tossing the vast white wolf aside. Renfield, the man landed, his feet digging twin ruts from the floor as he skidded to a halt. He was on his feet faster then most would register, a fist impacting into Hans's chest and sending him cart-wheeling across the tarmac. He had barely time to stop before the wolf slammed hard into his chest once again, the red eyes widening slightly as something gave way. A vast, bipedal wolf punched back, his great coat splitting under the pressure of the sudden change. Renfield howled as he was grotesquely torn asunder as the other slashed upward, its claws digging into the soft belly of the other wolf.

Hans stopped, a pink tongue licking at his chops, flicking away the blood. Renfield regenerated quickly, that same furred mist boiling about his form. Golden eyes burst from the mist, followed by a large muzzle and shaggy coat. Bipedal, Renfield, the Wyre rose from the white. His fur was silvery, almost a pure white in the night air. Unlike the bare whiteness of the Captain, the wolf, black thorn like tattoos were branded across the fur, running along the arms and banding round the thickset muscle of Renfield's upper arms. His golden eyes were still very much human, the irises contracting rapidly as his nostrils flared, taking in every scent which spilled through the air. They both froze, panting loudly as Renfield rested his arms on the floor, his shape changing slightly to take on a more quadrupled form. His grinned, a strange sight for something so wolfish and doglike, exposing many long white sharp teeth. The near identical white wolf who faced him, glared with the same golden irises, its tongue running along the black lips of its mouth and removing the blood from its fur.

Alfred snarled his voice thick though clear through his fang filled mouth.

"First blood…" He padded forward, not even reverting to human form for speech "…Dog."

Hans snapped his jaws together, his eyes narrowing.

"Always silent…" Alfred circled the other, Hans mirroring his opponent "…such a cold hearted killer with illusions of grandeur. That he is more honourable then the monsters your little…fat…short…man creates and leads."

Hans leapt forward, Renfield raising his head rapidly to butt the other in the chest. Hans fell back howling, his ribs coming together slowly as they began to circle each other, the flames licking at their white tails as they stalked.

"How does it feel…" Renfield said "…to have your tongue torn out. To not ever be able to utter sweet words to anyone. How does it feel…" Howling, the Captain tore forward, his teeth snapping and biting at Renfield's side. They broke apart briefly, Renfield shaking his fur to re-heal a gaping wound; Hans's face rapidly coming back together. Renfield bared his teeth, blood dribbling down from his mouth. They smashed together again, tearing and biting, Renfield slamming his side into the other to dislodge a grabbing snap of the jaws, his claws tearing through the thick coat of the other. Hans's claws to rose up, shredding Renfield's side in one foul swipe. What returned…was rather unsporting. A vast humanoid fist, covered with fur tossed the wolf nearly a hundred metres, Renfield rising from the masses, humanoid and extremely angry. Hans skidded to a halt, his back to a burning pile of metal. He was immediately down on his haunches, his wolf springing to its feet, teeth bared, yellowed teeth running with spittle.

"Scottish Rules!!!" Renfield called over the wreck "…lets fight like the Wyre trained us to be. Wolves and Men, Wyre and wolves. By the Fur of our ancestors…wouldn't you say…." He paused, forcing enough gall behind his words to kill even the toughest vampire "…Brother."

Hans rose to his feet, fleetingly human as his own bare chest heaved in the firelight. Opposite, his mirror image, his double, his doppelganger, his identical twin laughed as the two scars spread across his chest ran together the skin becoming one again. Admittedly, Renfield stood more thickset, his arms more thickly muscled. His hair was longer, more a shaggy mane, not quite matching Hans's own short, neat cut. Hans's dog tags hung heavy on his chest, Renfield's own square tags tinkling in the wind. A small token in the shape of a compass and setsquare seized in the claws of a raven glittered in the flames, the raven's jet eyes two dark points.

"You think you can change your name and run, all those hundreds of years ago and I wouldn't find you. Wyre has always run with coincidence, the hunt has always taught us that. In the end, I would find you, even if I wasn't looking…" Renfield spread his arms, signalling to the fire around him. "…oh how lucky am I."

The man opposite bared his teeth in anger.

"Oh…but what's that, Brother. I can't hear what you said…" he cupped his ear mockingly "…Did the pack truly punish you…I wanted death…" he cackled "…but they took your tongue. Everyone always though the muteness referred to some kind of honourable warrior, intelligence perhaps. But you're just a ruthless killer, like me. Like all of us…" spittle formed on his teeth as through tight jaw, Renfield felt a single tear dribble down the curve of his cheekbone "…you killed them, all of them. You robbed me of everything…You have no sanctity." His voice broke, "…you are rotten, tainted, bloodied. You have gone feral and I want to have what you took from me!!!"

Hans didn't respond, only to lower his chin slightly, his eyes sinking down beneath his fringe, his red eyes watching as fur ran up his back. Renfield's left arm exploded in a mist of fur, vast teeth breaking from the gap as a huge wolf's head rose from the mist. Renfield snarled, his irises distending as his teeth grew and sharpened. "You're not a man, monster or dog. You are tainted!!"

* * *

The parachute rippled in the wind. Wrathwell discarded the wrapper to the winds and stuck the lollypop in his mouth. From the flames, Renfield's words rippled across.

"Huh…" he muttered, slotting the lollypop into the corner of his mouth. "…bloody man dog monster analogy once again. When will he give it a rest? He's beginning to sound like Alucard…" he sighed "…and what the hell am I going to do with you?"

He smashed the scythe butt down onto the illusionist's back. Zorin screamed as Wrathwell dropped down, gripping her blonde hair between iron fingers. He pulled her upright, she was screaming all the while as she was wrenched to her feet. Wrathwell smiled grimly.

"I would kill you. Not that I take great joys in killing such weak individuals as yourself. However…" Wrathwell brought his face level with her own, dirt covered, bloodstained face. "…but I have been ordered to leave you alive. You have a much greater purpose to play in this little game and we need another Shi."

He dumped her unceremoniously, his coat billowing as he seized his scythe from his resting place and laid it across his shoulder. He ran a hand through the mess of brown hair, several stray ends sticking up in the wind. Through slitted eyes, the green pupils almost glowed as he turned back to the struggling Nazi soldier. "However, my leader did only mention that I kept you alive. He didn't tell me in what state. My dear…" he turned, several green lines of power running across the metal surfaces of the gauntlets "…they always say that they are the window to the soul but with you been such a 'soulless' individual, they are of little use. I might take one of your eyes."

* * *

Renfield darted aside, shattering Hans's guard with a well placed punch; Han's lashed out, Renfield tumbling away howling as his face tore in two. He was back with a crack of monstrous white light, the stench of ozone and burnt meat emanating through the air as he bulled into his brother once again, sending the Captain staggering backward, his arms diving down to stop Renfield's assault. Renfield snarled back, his teeth shearing through the extended fingers of the right hand, the Captain's eyes registering surprise as severed digits splattered blood across the tarmac. He immediately shifted his form, a vast hairy arm tossing the wolf away. He carried on forward, landing another punishing blow to Renfield's underside.

Renfield growled, his jaws distending, his once human face taking on a more wolfish appearance as a white fist slammed hard into the other's chest. Renfield, baying in anger leapt forward, a white mitt engulfing the Captain's head in one grab. Muscles bulging, Renfield launched himself forward and in one fluid movement, wrenched Hans into the air. The refuelling tanker burst into a vast fireball, scattering the metal fragments to the wind as Hans smashed into the vehicle's side. Renfield dug a burning fragment from his chest and leapt forward, bringing his fists down onto the dark shadow which rose from the inferno where the tanker once stood. Hans was gone in a flash, Renfield switching the direction of his jump with a gut wrenching crack which sent the fibres of the airship thrumming. He was swotted from the air by a slab of white flesh which slammed him down into the tarmac, the surface shattering under the force. Renfield rolled to one side as the other brought his fist down, going a foot down into the tarmac. Renfield was a snarling, fanged mass of white fur as he landed with a clatter on his feet, Hans's foot slamming into his chest, the wolf somersaulting in mid air, changing as he went. A wolf landed, a vast bipedal thing. The thorn tattoos seemed to be throbbing with unholy energy, Renfield pulverising the Captain's exposed stomach, blood splattering across the tarmac.

"Curse this world for no silver!!!" Renfield brought his fist down on his brother's shoulder, a fist impacting on his ribs, blood spouting freely from Renfield's mouth. With one furred hand he brushed aside the liquid, snarling.

"Oh well, they always say that to win, it always takes a man to do a mortal's job…" he laughed, darting aside, shattering his brother's arm with one swift kick "…a monster to kill a monster seems quite poetic."

He ducked low, sweeping sideways beneath another roundhouse kick, levering the top of his head into his opponent's chin. Growling, the Captain took another sweeping kick, Renfield ignoring the blow and drove his fist into the rib cage of his opponent.

Shrieking, Han's changed, the once human form billowing upward in a flood of white fur and muscle. He loomed over Renfield, the jaws dribbling saliva from each pointed tooth. Renfield growled, falling back rapidly as the vast wolf reared over the flames. Ape like in its movement, its muscled body was held aloft by twin pillars of white muscle, most of the weight being pushed to the back legs.

Renfield snarled again, baying for the other to fall but Hans looked on, blood dribbling from many open wounds, their regeneration ignored for now while he changed.

"By the name of the all the Clans…" Alfred Renfield reared upward "…by the forces of the Wyre, I release all my control restrictions as set forth by Lord Winslow…" Hans's eyes widened "…as set forward by the Hellsing Organisation and by the master of monsters himself…the Darwin Enigma is engaged."

"Oh how fitting…" Brown cloth caught the breeze as through the smoke, a dark shape rose from the flames. Hand met hand as a long quiet clap echoed across the space. Knight Captain Andrew Wrathwell stalked through the fire, his coat rising billowing in the wind, the scythe catching the light of the flames with each step he took. "…the two old dogs with an old quarrel. Time makes this so worthless."

"You insult my honour?" Renfield snarled, quizzical even with such anger "…Knight Captain?"

"It's irrelevant, Renfield…" Wrathwell didn't look round, Hans's wolf form loping forward, teeth bared, making for the immortal with each thundering bound. Renfield, howling leapt forward, hoping to block the bounding steps of the Werewolf. The captain didn't stop, instead swotting the wolf aside with one sweep of his paw.

Wrathwell brought his hand up as the wolf struck. A cloud of green particles shot through the wolf, the jolt sending Hans's coat on end, the yelping cries of pure agony putting Renfield's teeth on edge as Wrathwell continued onward, making for the crumpled body of Lyra Seward.

"I would leave, Dog. You have no place in this affair apart from slaking one man's thirst for redemption…" he stopped and knelt down, seizing Lyra from the floor and lifting her gently, a limp hand dropping from the lifeless bundle. "…Renfield, you disappoint me…". He raised an eyebrow at the smoking Captain "…leave now. Tell your little excuse for a leader that things move faster then what he thinks and though he believes that he can control this, he has no idea."

Hans turned and was gone into the fire. Wrathwell brushed aside a stray hair from Lyra's face, the sightless eyes staring back as blood dribbled from her mouth, spotting the tarmac at his feet.

"What the hell are you doing…!!!" Renfield snarled, bounding over the rubble and seizing Wrathwell in two vast mitts. "…this is my chance!!! My chance to end this once and for all!!!!"

"You are merely acting out what your heart tells you…" Wrathwell drew his pistol with a quick flick of his hand, snapping the heavy appendage into Renfield's face. "…listen to your brain for once and you will realise what you're doing. Do you want to be feral!!?"

"But I need this Wrathwell. I_ need _to be free from all this. His life is a stain upon the Earth and upon my Memory."

"You have merely forsaken some past misdeed and are losing your way. Do you want to become like them…."

"Do not compare me to the taint."

"Then why are you trying to hurt me?"

"Because you stopped me from doing the thing which I have been wishing to do for some time. To halt this blight he holds over me I want to….spread him over the walls, tear his head off, rip him to complete shreds!!!!!" Renfield roared, spittle splattering over Wrathwell's face. In his free arm, Lyra's blank eyes stared back from the crook of his arm, blood draining into the brown cloth.

"And would this truly bring them back. Or would this 'murder' however just it may be to you is actually staining their memories. Is this truly what you have become Renfield, a monster who only wishes to seek revenge." Wrathwell said coolly, snapping the safety catch off Aeries. Where is your humanity?

"But…!"

"I will end you, Alfred Renfield. If you want to tread that dark path and become a Monster like so many of the vampires, what your brother has become, I will not stop you. But if you step on that path, you are no longer part of this squad, you are a free agent who has no rights outside of the Templar, and for that matter….you must be eliminated."

"But I've known you for years…" Renfield dropped the immortal, Wrathwell landing hard but still held the pistol unwaveringly, the small vial of liquid hanging from the red thread twirling mesmerizingly in the wind. "…you should understand."

"I have lived long enough to understand that revenge only leads to a dark place…a place I will not allow you to see. It is a mercy, in my mind, to end it right now, in this hell we call the world if you wish to seek a path which will only lead to your end or something much worse. They may be dead. He may have murdered them, but what does it achieve, to hunt and kill someone who in truth is of little interest to us or the Fates. He is for another to kill, not you, not now. I've seen his hour glass; I know what he has left."

"Andrew."

"Alf."

"What are you going to do?"

"More importantly, what are you going to do…old Friend."

"Nothing." Renfield sunk his chin down into his chest and let a heart felt, wolf like whine.

"Good, then let's end this. I think the mission is on fire; we destroyed the lab and the 'Bad Guys' got away, however, I do believe that we are winning."

"Happy VE day sir."

"He's mute isn't he." Wrathwell groaned, turning to watch the zeppelin rise from the smoke and disappear into the cold night air.

"Yep."

"So what I just told him was a bit pointless."

"Something like that."

"Oh…" Wrathwell looked a little perplexed. "…bugger."

"You really don't think things through do you?"

Wrathwell shook his head, the zeppelin's engines droning in the winds. "To think is to be slowed sometimes. To not think is to be mistaken so perhaps a happy medium must be found. I'm quite happy forgetting myself sometimes."

"What are we going to do with her…" Renfield nodded toward the limp body of Lyra Wrathwell cradled "…we can't leave her here, and burying her is out of the question."

"She won't need burying…" Wrathwell said curtly "…she won't need a soldier's death because Renfield…"

"Hmmm."

"…she's not dead." Wrathwell said with grin, his lips curling back as stared down into the white, bloodied face. He could see his coat through the hole blasted in her chest….survival for most would have been slim. However…Renfield narrowed his eyes as a single glowing spark erupted from her nostril and was gone into the darkness.

"What?"

Wrathwell let the body drop, the coat coming away in his hands as Lyra fell away. What hit the ground wasn't remotely human, a vast cloud of ash boiled from her skin, her clothes as she fell to pieces. Bones, skin, organs, hair and clothes all became ash, her body breaking apart as the wind caught her remains. Cinders poured from her body cavity, the last lingering embers of her heart were like the slag poured from a blast furnace in their intensity as they poured away, their path marked by scorch marks which ran across the floor. Surrounded by the ash, Wrathwell cackled, his coat billowing as 'Old Glory' chimed, a sonorous note which blew the still standing windows from their frames and scattered glass to the winds. The hurricane of ash was screaming by, Renfield covering his face as glass and embers became a glittering column of light and fire.

Amongst the storm, Wrathwell still laughed as the moon at last broke through the green fire of the flare and illuminated the tempest with glittering fingers.

"What in hell, Captain!!?"

"I thought so…" Wrathwell called jovially from the winds "…she's rising from the ashes!"

"How is this possible!!?"

"I do think we may have underestimated little Lyra…" Wrathwell yelled "…we may have been a little blinkered. She truly isn't all she appears to be…isn't that right Fawkes."

A beautiful noise, sounding like a million crystals having been struck like a gong rumbled into being as vast red wings exploded from the tempest's sides. A blazing, flame coated beak snapped at the air as black eyes glared down on the world of men. The fiery feathers snapped, the canopy rearing up high above them as Phoenix song cut across the air field. Wrathwell began to clap as the fiery being, its actual form as black as pitch through the fire, its song filling the night sky and causing the stars to glimmer with more force.

"Wonderful!! Absolutely wonderful…!" Wrathwell shouted into the wind "…beautiful!!!!!"

And then it was gone, the ash returning to the air and the bird leaving after images in both the Wyrewolf's and Immortal's eyes.

"Where'd she go?"

"She'll be back, in time." Wrathwell began to chuckle, the noise breaking into a snigger before he opened his mouth wide and began to laugh. Renfield shook his head in bewilderment.

* * *

Warsaw was still. In the depths of the facility, Nina, her long blonde air spilling around her, hitched her scarf up around her mouth and stared long and hard at the operating tables, the blood soaked rags and dead bodies which littered the floor. Deftly, she strode across to a fallen workstation, her boot knocking a secure packing case over in the process. She swore, loudly as glass broke inside, the Red Army soldier bending down to scoop the fallen box from the floor. She snapped the clasp off, her pale fingers pulling the box apart as its contents tinkled with the sudden movement. Inside, glass shards were scattered midst puddles of blood where vials, once holding the vile substance had smashed in their holders. Rapunzel swore once again, her fingers stirring the blood samples.

Something hard met her finger as she dug deeper into the pack, the hard black leather brushing against the back of her hands, her fingerless gloves riding up as it caught the thick woollen fabric. There was a single still intact glass vial, delicately placed in a far corner of the container. Nina froze, her finger resting ever so gently on the vial. She pinched it between finger and thumb and slowly, but surely began to lift it out. It caught a small metal hook and stopped dead, Nina froze once again. With a deep breath, she began to withdraw her hand once again, the vial still intact…for now.

At last, after what seemed like an age, she extracted the thin slip of glass, her prize sloshing around inside. Grinning almost triumphantly at the tiny glass vial, she stowed her precious cargo in a small, well packed leather box, dropping the remains of the other samples before turning away.

Moskavin saluted as his Captain approached, Nina pausing before she left the dank room behind.

"Burn every thing, leave no proof that we were here. I have the sample. Tell High Command that the Shi has finally come into the right hands."

A red coat caught on the winds caught Wrathwell's eye. He paused amidst his gleeful laugh, the green of his eyes alighting the small girl who walked through the fire. It was struggling to keep its form, the white cloth giving way to red before it was reined back in. Her crimson eyes were ever watchful as Wrathwell nodded curtly to the child.

"Captain Andrew Wrathwell."

"Alucard"

"We meet again it would appear.

"We do certainly…or at least we did." Wrathwell looked nonplussed at the small girl.

"I was hoping for this joy later."

"I wasn't."

"Why so hostile, Sir Knight."

"Don't call me that…." Wrathwell closed his eyes. Renfield was watching from behind, his looked guarded, his eyes flicking from the vampire's eyes to Wrathwell's set face and back "…and if I were hostile, you'd be bleeding."

The Vampire made a slight huh noise, something which could be mistaken for an amused laugh.

"I see the sarcasm hasn't worn off."

"Its part of the job description."

"An Immortal…" Alucard narrowed his eyes as the ash continued to pass by "…Alighieri was wrong"

"No, Alighieri got it the wrong way round. He was right about…most of it."

"Oh…and what was he incorrect about."

"Purgatory isn't that bad. A lot more water…he got the lava bit wrong and the wood of suicides isn't as impressive…" he grimaced "…why are you here Vampire?"

"Carnage always fills me with great joy. To see such slaughter at the hands of other monsters is so….gratifying" Alucard said softly.

"Fine…" Wrathwell said shortly. "…so what can I do for you before you go off and..."

"Swoop down on some poor virgins and devour them and their souls and employ them in my army."

"Yes..." Wrathwell took a deep breath "…….swooping would be bad."

"Well, yes, I could do that….if I so wished. However, I have my orders."

"I did have my orders…" Wrathwell gestured round to the burning airfield. "…though that went up in smoke as you can well see. I am, as we speak, a free agent."

"So, what is your part in all this Andrew."

"It is not my place to say…" Wrathwell shouldered the scythe. "…the fates have yet to reveal themselves and I'm in no rush to tempt….fate. A…..um….while of near death experiences….don't make me like death that much."

"Excellent…!" Alucard bared his teeth in amusement "…another….dark purpose. The slaughter will be so….satisfying."

"There will be slaughter; however, I doubt the future holds much for such an ancient being as your self. I however am a little more permanent and perhaps a little more human." Was the response, Wrathwell sounding rather impertinent

"Am I to be cast aside? Like a dog…"

"Use that bloody 'Man, Dog or Monster' and I'll make sure your next meal will be 15 fathoms down. That spiel has caused me enough problems over the years. I don't really care. All I see is Man, Hero, Monster….and Mercenary." Wrathwell warned, gesturing at the Vampire opposite. "…now begone. I have little time for you now."

More dark shapes flitted through the smoke as Alucard looked on with glee. Shia'ra, still pulling herself back together again after her hard fall, alighted gently atop a burning pile of metal. Holmwood, adjusting his glasses sat with his back against a burned piece of old masonry, remnants of the Air field watch tower. Renfield squared his shoulders, his white mane of hair caught in the breeze as stray ends flickered before his eyes. Marian Westerna, her face blackened and dirtied, having spent most of her time in the circling plane, waited ready; her sniper rifle slung across her back, her white hair caught in the breeze.

"And this is it…" Alucard snickered "…is this all there is of this 'Grand Army'."

"No…" Wrathwell said simply. "…you have no idea. You merely see the Scyre, that is all."

"Scyre…" Alucard began to fold away into the smoke "…I look forward to joining you on the battlefield. Or at least, facing you across it."

"War is coming Vampire, just not how you know it."

* * *

Deep within Hyde Park, where tree and tarmac rode hand in hand through the well manicured grass, the wood lined portal rolled closed for one final time, depositing Greene and Winslow midst the darkness. One by one the street lamps flickered back to life, their lights covering the park in patches of light. Winslow sagged visibly, sinking down onto the bench. He extracted a pipe and lit it, the flame illuminating his eyes in the shadow cast by his unruly mess of grey hair. Greene sighed

"You are getting old, Greg."

"I know. I do believe I have some time left however, the reaper hasn't come to collect me yet and won't do for some time."

The raven alighted, cawing as old man nodded in greeting. Behind that, a single tall woman stalked through the dark. She was dressed in brown, her lapel tightly buttoned as long skirts brushed the grass. Beneath those, the tell tale flash of metal exposed the chain mail underneath. Her thin, pale features were broken in half by a small pair of half moon spectacles which she peered over sternly. Behind her, trotting in brown leather boots, the officer from earlier that night was but a shadow, his head bowed.

"It really isn't necessary for you my lord to wander into the realms of the Fey." Cassandra Wright, Winslow's sectary scolded as she primly checked her neat bun which held her brown hair in check.

"I go where I please. I'm sure if I was in trouble, you'd be there to tell me off and dust me off, Ms Wright." Winslow protested, taking on the appearance of a henpecked school boy as her stern voice grated at his hearing.

"I am old man…"

"Yes, you are old. You should not have gone off gallivanting round the fey Realms without informing us. You could have sent Wrathwell. For this, I am not going to get your paper as ordered."

"But Cassie…." Winslow complained vehemently.

"No Buts. I will not stand while you wander off into other parallel universes without hot food and better shoes. Do you know how long it will take me to clean your clothes after the last time….and with the war on!"

Greene sniggered as Winslow sunk lower into his scarf, closing his eyes.

"At least you're wearing the scarf I knitted you."

"You have got to be kidding me…please do not tell me you're treating him like that…" Greene tried to keep a straight face as Winslow nearly disappeared into his scarf, the pipe sticking out of the coloured fabric. It was a rather attractive scarf, several green and silver shades knitted into the material. Third Eye Usurpers as the Templar called them, would of spotted under close inspection, the runes of power sown into the fabric. Cassandra was quite the rune smith…

"I am in-charge of his everyday…"

"I know…I know…but he must be older then you by quite a bit and you're treating him like a child…" green eyes flashed behind the glasses, Cassandra fixing the smuggler with flat glare "…oh…"

"You have been a bad influence once again…"

"How old are you?"

"Four hundred years."

"Oh, that would explain it." Greene stuck his hands resolutely in his pockets. "I will leave you be, Lord Winslow. I have other things to attend to…you know. The Hob won't organise themselves…if they could, we'd be in trouble."

"Goodbye Julian…" Winslow muttered, nose deep in his scarf. "…I'll see you around."

Greene turned and stalked away into the dark. The rising breeze still rolled by, the trees alive with night life as the stars twinkled high above. But even in the rising tumult, Wright's voice still clearly echoed across the park in highly audible shout.

"And look at your trousers!!! What in hell have you being doing in there!!! Having a snowball fight or did you get it into your head once again to make a snow angel!!!!"

* * *

Integra giggled as Wrathwell sank back in his seat, his fingers steepled. Through his blazing green eyes, the fires danced, both internally and reflecting the fire which blazed away beside them. The Raven cawed, sticking its head pleasantly under its wing and feigning sleep, even though one beady eye watched the door with great interest. Safe from the dark realisations of the story, Integra gathered her night dress around her looked deep into the eyes of the man opposite.

"Who was Alucard…" she questioned, her voice quiet and fatigued.

"He is of little importance at this moment…I'm sure he'll pop up at some point. They have a habit of doing that."

"Who…?"

Wrathwell grinned.

"So is Sir Winslow still alive?"

"Barely, he's a little greyer and he's confined to a wheel chair, but he's still the keen tactical mind he had back in world war two, but I sense it is close to his end, even perhaps in the next few days. I can sense it…"

"That's rather sad."

"Yeah, but time always marches on and in the end who are we to stop it. The fates are a fickle but determined bunch. A little pernickety perhaps, but still, pretty set in their ways."

Wrathwell leaned forward, his slightly amused air gone with a blast of cold. Integra looked on stonily as he intoned softly:

Thrice the Anvil be rung:

So that we may be armed.

Thrice the Wych will be stung:

So Eldritch will wind to our ways.

Thrice the Thorn be cut:

So that our weapons fly true.

Thrice the Bell be rung:

When we come for you at the end of Time.

"What's that…" Integra murmured as Wrathwell's face soured, his eyes closing. "…what is that from?"

"They are coming Integra."

"Who's they? Vampires?"

"No…" Wrathwell said "…not vampires. Something much worse. Something much more insidious."

"Who are they…?"

Wrathwell didn't respond, his ears pricking up as something moved in the light beyond the kitchen door. Arthur's voice rang clearly across the halls as more men filed into the rooms through out the mansion, searching for any signs of life. Integra cried out to her father as the dark swirled, the snap of wings echoing across the halls as there was a faint crack in the air, the slight smell of burnt metal wafting across the kitchen. When Integra sat back, the chair where Wrathwell had been sitting was empty, the raven and the scythe gone. The fire still blazed and the remains of his dinner sat beside it, crumbs lightly dusting its surface.

She sat very still, her breath becoming quiet as she stared at that spot, waiting for any sign of the Immortal. Perhaps it had been a dream, perhaps he'd never been there. Perhaps he'd never existed…

She was still sitting there when her father engulfed her in a warm embrace, his words fearful but so glad to have found her. She was still staring at the space as she was carried out, over her father's shoulder as he walked, the smell of his clothing covering the metallic smell of Wrathwell's passing.

The door closed behind them and it was a short time till she was back in her bed. Beneath the mattress, nothing moved, the wolfish shapes which flitted by the window were no more and the smell of Bogs had long since moved on. Ole' Tommy, whoever he was had passed on, for now.

It wasn't until the lights had been shut out, the door closed and the darkness came back in that the single solid lump resting in her nightdress pocket became apparent. With deft fingers, she pulled the white fabric apart and pulled out that single white fragment of bone.

The bone spoke of old things, ancient things. Like ancient forests full of ferns and moss, the trees trying to break from the green earth. Like old stones, rock walls and deep cracks in the earth where things moved and watched the world before stealing back to places unknown. Like the tallest peaks where Ravens waited, their eyes more human then though possible.

Integra gingerly placed the bone shard on the bedside table. With small fingers she took off her glasses and rested it on the side. However her sleep that night was filled with quiet whispers and dark shadows, not happy dreams of childhood things. But through it all, they were there, her angels, however black their wings might be.

* * *

**To be continued...**


End file.
